FABRE'S    BOOK   OF   INSECTS 


i 


.,,.,:•,,,-..,•:•,., 

,,, 


RETOLD  FROM 


DODE 


MPANY 


THE  SACRED  BEETLE 

Sometimes  the  Scarab  seems  to  enter  into  partnership  with 
a  friend  Page  13 


\       FABRE'S 


BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

RETOLD  FROM  ALEXANDER  TEDCEIRADE  MATTOS1 
TRANSLATION  of  FABRE'S  "SOUVENIRS  ENTOMOLOGIQJlESn 
BY"  MRS.RODOLPH  STAWELL 

Illustrated  By 

E-I-DETMOLD 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 


COPYBIOHT,    1921, 

BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY, 


PRINTED  IN  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I 

PAGE 

MY  WORK  AND  MY  WORKSHOP i 

CHAPTER  II 
THE  SACRED  BEETLE     .........     11 

CHAPTER  III 
THE  CICADA 25 

CHAPTER  IV 
THE  PRAYING  MANTIS 40 

CHAPTER  V 
THE  GLOW-WORM .54 

CHAPTER  VI 
A  MASON-WASP 69 

CHAPTER  VII 

THE  PSYCHES 89 

vii 


CONTENTS 
CHAPTER  VIII 

PAGE 

THE  SELF-DENIAL  OF  THE  SPANISH  COPRIS  .     ,   109 

CHAPTER  IX 
TWO  STRANGE  GRASSHOPPERS 121 

CHAPTER  X 
COMMON  WASPS 138 

CHAPTER  XI 
THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GRUB 157 

CHAPTER  XII 
THE  CRICKET .   175 

CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  SISYPHUS  .   108 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  CAPRICORN 209 

CHAPTER  XV 
LOCUSTS 227 

CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  ANTHRAX  FLY 249 

viii 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE  SACRED  BEETLE   .     .     .      Frontispiece 
Sometimes  the  Scarab  seems  to  enter  into  partnership  with  a  friend 

THE  CICADA  ^ 

In  July,  when  most  of  the  insects  in  my  sunny  country  are  parched  with 

thirst,  the  Cicada  remains  perfectly  cheerful 26 

THE  PRAYING  MANTIS 

A  long  time  ago,  in  the  days  of  ancient  Greece,  this  insect  was  named 

Mantis,  or  the  Prophet 42 

PELOP^US  SPIRIFEX 

When  finished  the  work  is  amber-yellow,  and  rather  reminds  one  of  the 

outer  skin  of  an  onion 80 

THE  PSYCHES 

This  is  the  secret  of  the  walking  bundle  of  sticks.     It  is   a  Faggot 

Caterpillar,  belonging  to  the  group  known  as  the  Psyches  ...     90 

THE  SPANISH  COPRIS 

The  burrow  is  almost  filled  by  three  or  four  ovoid  nests,  standing  one 

against  the  other,  with  the  pointed  end  upwards 116 

THE  WHITE-FACED  DECTICUS 

The  Greek  word  dectikos  means  biting,  fond  of  biting.     The  Decticus 

is  well  named.     It  is  eminently  an  insect  given  to  biting  .      .      .      .130 

COMMON  WASPS 

The  wasp's  nest  is  made  of  a  thin,  flexible  material  like  brown  paper, 

formed  of  particles  of  wood 144 

THE  FIELD  CRICKET 

Here  is  one  of  the  humblest  of  creatures  able  to  lodge  himself  to 
perfection.  He  has  a  home;  he  has  a  peaceful  retreat,  the  first 
condition  of  comfort 180 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 
THE  SISYPHUS 

PA«X 

The  mother  harnesses  herself  in  the  place  of  honour,  in  front.     The 

father  pushes  behind  in  the  reverse  position,  head  downwards  .      .   204 

ITALIAN  LOCUSTS 
"I  have  buried  underground,"  she  says,  "the  treasure  of  the  future"  .      .  238 

THE  ANTHRAX  FLY 

Her  delicate  suit  of  downy  velvet,  from  which  you  take  the  bloom  by 
merely  breathing  on  it,  could  not  withstand  the  contact  of  rough 
tunnels 258 


FABRE'S   BOOK   OF   INSECTS 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

CHAPTER  I 

MY   WORK  AND   MY   WORKSHOP 

^^  "W"  "T"E  all  have  our  own  talents,  our  special  gifts. 
%/%  /     Sometimes  these  gifts  seem  to  come  to  us 
V       v        from  our  forefathers,  but  more  often  it  is 
difficult  to  trace  their  origin. 

A  goatherd,  perhaps,  amuses  himself  by  counting  little 
pebbles  and  doing  sums  with  them.  He  becomes  an  as- 
toundingly  quick  reckoner,  and  in  the  end  is  a  professor 
of  mathematics.  Another  boy,  at  an  age  when  most  of 
us  care  only  for  play,  leaves  his  schoolfellows  at  their 
games  and  listens  to  the  imaginary  sounds  of  an  organ,  a 
secret  concert  heard  by  him  alone.  He  has  a  genius  for 
music.  A  third — so  small,  perhaps,  that  he  cannot  eat 
his  bread  and  jam  without  smearing  his  face — takes  a 
keen  delight  in  fashioning  clay  into  little  figures  that  are 
amazingly  lifelike.  If  he  be  fortunate  he  will  some  day 
be  a  famous  sculptor. 

To  talk  about  oneself  is  hateful,  I  know,  but  perhaps 
I  may  be  allowed  to  do  so  for  a  moment,  in  order  to  intro- 
duce myself  and  my  studies. 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

From  my  earliest  childhood  I  have  felt  drawn  towards 
the  things  of  Nature.  It  would  be  ridiculous  to  suppose 
that  this  gift,  this  love  of  observing  plants  and  insects, 
was  inherited  from  my  ancestors,  who  were  uneducated 
people  t)f  the  soil  and  observed  little  but  their  own  cows 
and  sheep.  Of  my  four  grandparents  only  one  ever 
opened  a  book,  and  even  he  was  very  uncertain  about  his 
spelling.  Nor  do  I  owe  anything  to  a  scientific  training. 
Without  masters,  without  guides,  often  without  books,  I 
have  gone  forward  with  one  aim  always  before  me :  to 
add  a  few  pages  to  the  history  of  insects. 

As  I  look  back — so  many  years  back! — I  can  see  my- 
self as  a  tiny  boy,  extremely  proud  of  my  first  braces  and 
of  my  attempts  to  learn  the  alphabet.  And  very  well  I 
remember  the  delight  of  finding  my  first  bird's  nest  and 
gathering  my  first  mushroom. 

One  day  I  was  climbing  a  hill.  At  the  top  of  it  was  a 
row  of  trees  that  had  long  interested  me  very  much. 
From  the  little  window  at  home  I  could  see  them  against 
the  sky,  tossing  before  the  wind  or  writhing  madly  in  the 
snow,  and  I  wished  to  have  a  closer  view  of  them.  It 
was  a  long  climb — ever  so  long;  and  my  legs  were  very 
short.  I  clambered  up  slowly  and  tediously,  for  the 
grassy  slope  was  as  steep  as  a  roof. 

Suddenly,  at  my  feet,  a  lovely  bird  flew  out  from  its 


MY  WORK  AND  MY  WORKSHOP 

hiding-place  under  a  big  stone.  In  a  moment  I  had 
found  the  nest,  which  was  made  of  hair  and  fine  straw, 
and  had  six  eggs  laid  side  by  side  in  it.  The  eggs  were 
a  magnificent  azure  blue,  very  bright.  This  was  the  first 
nest  I  ever  found,  the  first  of  the  many  joys  which  the 
birds  were  to  bring  me.  Overpowered  with  pleasure,  I 
lay  down  on  the  grass  and  stared  at  it. 

Meanwhile  the  mother-bird  was  flying  about  uneasily 
from  stone  to  stone,  crying  "Tack!  Tack!"  in  a  voice  of 
the  greatest  anxiety.  I  was  too  small  to  understand  what 
she  was  suffering.  I  made  a  plan  worthy  of  a  little  beast 
of  prey.  I  would  carry  away  just  one  of  the  pretty  blue 
eggs  as  a  trophy,  and  then,  in  a  fortnight,  I  would  come 
back  and  take  the  tiny  birds  before  they  could  fly  away. 
Fortunately,  as  I  walked  carefully  home,  carrying  my  blue 
egg  on  a  bed  of  moss,  I  met  the  priest. 

"Ah!"  said  he.  "A  Saxicola's  egg!  Where  did  you 
get  it?' 

I  told  him  the  whole  story.  "I  shall  go  back  for  the 
others,"  I  said,  "when  the  young  birds  have  got  their 
quill-feathers." 

"Oh,  but  you  mustn't  do  that!"  cried  the  priest. 

"You  mustn't  be  so  cruel  as  to  rob  the  poor  mother  of 
all  her  little  birds.  Be  a  good  boy,  now,  and  promise  not 
to  touch  the  nest." 

[3] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

From  this  conversation  I  learnt  two  things:  first, 
that  robbing  birds'  nests  is  cruel  and,  secondly,  that  birds 
and  beasts  have  names  just  like  ourselves. 

"What  are  the  names  of  all  my  friends  in  the  woods 
and  meadows?"  I  asked  myself.  "And  what  does 
Saxicola  mean?"  Years  later  I  learnt  that  Saxicola 
means  an  inhabitant  of  the  rocks.  My  bird  with  the 
blue  eggs  was  a  Stone-chat. 

Below  our  village  there  ran  a  little  brook,  and  beyond 
the  brook  was  a  spinney  of  beeches  with  smooth,  straight 
trunks,  like  pillars.  The  ground  was  padded  with  moss. 
It  was  in  this  spinney  that  I  picked  my  first  mushroom, 
which  looked,  when  I  caught  sight  of  it,  like  an  egg 
dropped  on  the  ny>ss  by  some  wandering  hen.  There 
were  many  others  there,  of  different  sizes,  forms,  and 
colours.  Some  were  shaped  like  bells,  some  like 
extinguishers,  some  like  cups:  some  were  broken,  and 
were  weeping  tears  of  milk:  some  became  blue  when 
I  trod  on  them.  Others,  the  most  curious  of  all,  were 
like  pears  with  a  round  hole  at  the  top — a  sort  of  chimney 
whence  a  whiff  of  smoke  escaped  when  I  prodded  their 
under-side  with  my  finger.  I  filled  my  pockets  with 
these,  and  made  them  smoke  at  my  leisure,  till  at  last 
they  were  reduced  to  a  kind  of  tinder. 

Many  a  time  I  returned  to  that  delightful  spinney, 

[4] 


MY  WORK  AND  MY  WORKSHOP 

and  learnt  my  first  lessons  in  mushroom-lore  in  the 
company  of  the  Crows.  My  collections,  I  need  hardly 
say,  were  not  admitted  to  the  house. 

In  this  way> — by  observing  Nature  and  making  experi- 
ments— nearly  all  my  lessons  have  been  learnt:  all 
except  two,  in  fact.  I  have  received  from  others  two 
lessons  of  a  scientific  character,  and  two  only,  in  the 
whole  course  of  my  life:  one  in  anatomy  and  one  in 
chemistry. 

I  owe  the  first  to  the  learned  naturalist  Moquin-Tan- 
don,  who  showed  me  how  to  explore  the  interior  of  a 
Snail  in  a  plate  filled  with  water.  The  lesson  was  short 
and  fruitful.1 

My  first  introduction  to  chemistry  was  less  fortunate. 
It  ended  in  the  bursting  of  a  glass  vessel,  with  the  result 
that  most  of  my  fellow-pupils  were  hurt,  one  of  them 
nearly  lost  his  sight,  the  lecturer's  clothes  were  burnt  to 
pieces,  and  the  wall  of  the  lecture-room  was  splashed 
with  stains.  Later  on,  when  I  returned  to  that  room,  no 
longer  as  a  pupil  but  as  a  master,  the  splashes  were  still 
there.  On  that  occasion  I  learnt  one  thing  at  least. 
Ever  after,  when  I  made  experiments  of  that  kind,  I  kept 
my  pupils  at  a  distance. 

It  has  always  been  my  great  desire  to  have  a  laboratory 

1  See  Insect  Adventures,  retold  for  young  people  from  the  works  of  Henri  Fabre. 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

in  the  open  fields — not  an  easy  thing  to  obtain  when  one 
lives  in  a  state  of  constant  anxiety  about  one's  daily 
bread.  For  forty  years  it  was  my  dream  to  own  a  little 
bit  of  land,  fenced  in  for  the  sake  of  privacy:  a 
desolate,  barren,  sun-scorched  bit  of  land,  overgrown 
with  thistles  and  much  beloved  by  Wasps  and  Bees. 
Here,  without  fear  of  interruption,  I  might  question  the 
Hunting-wasps  and  others  of  my  friends  in  that  difficult 
language  which  consists  of  experiments  and  observa- 
tions. Here,  without  the  long  expeditions  and  rambles 
that  use  up  my  tune  and  strength,  I  might  watch  my 
insects  at  every  hour  of  the  day. 

And  then,  at  last,  my  wish  was  fulfilled.  I  obtained  a 
bit  of  land  in  the  solitude  of  a  little  village.  It  was  a 
harmas,  which  is  the  name  we  give  in  this  part  of 
Provence  to  an  untilled,  pebbly  expanse  where  hardly 
any  plant  but  thyme  can  grow.  It  is  too  poor  to  be  worth 
the  trouble  of  ploughing,  but  the  sheep  pass  there  in 
spring,  when  it  has  chanced  to  rain  and  a  little  grass 
grows  up. 

My  own  particular  harmas,  however,  had  a  small 
quantity  of  red  earth  mixed  with  the  stones,  and  had 
been  roughly  cultivated.  I  was  told  that  vines  once 
grew  here,  and  I  was  sorry,  for  the  original  vegetation 
had  been  driven  out  by  the  three-pronged  fork.  There 


[6] 


MY  WORK  AND  MY  WORKSHOP 

was  no  thyme  left,  nor  lavender,  nor  a  single  clump  of 
the  dwarf  oak.  As  thyme  and  lavender  might  be  useful 
to  me  as  a  hunting-ground  for  Bees  and  Wasps,  I  was 
obliged  to  plant  them  again. 

There  were  plenty  of  weeds :  couch-grass,  and  prickly 
centauries,  and  the  fierce  Spanish  oyster-plant,  with  its 
spreading  orange  flowers  and  spikes  strong  as  nails. 
Above  it  towered  the  Illyrian  cotton-thistle,  whose 
straight  and  solitary  stalk  grows  sometimes  to  the  height 
of  six  feet  and  ends  in  large  pink  tufts.  There  were 
smaller  thistles  too,  so  well  armed  that  the  plant-collector 
can  hardly  tell  where  to  grasp  them,  and  spiky  knap- 
weeds, and  in  among  them,  in  long  lines  provided  with 
hooks,  the  shoots  of  the  blue  dewberry  creeping  along 
the  ground.  If  you  had  visited  this  prickly  thicket  with- 
out wearing  high  boots,  you  would  have  paid  dearly  for 
your  rashness ! 

Such  was  the  Eden  that  I  won  by  forty  years  of 
desperate  struggle. 

This  curious,  barren  Paradise  of  mine  is  the  happy 
hunting-ground  of  countless  Bees  and  Wasps.  Never 
have  I  seen  so  large  a  population  of  insects  at  a  single 
spot.  All  the  trades  have  made  it  their  centre.  Here 
come  hunters  of  every  kind  of  game,  builders  in  clay, 
cotton-weavers,  leaf-cutters,  architects  in  pasteboard, 


[7] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

plasterers  mixing  mortar,  carpenters  boring  wood,  miners 
digging  underground  galleries,  workers  in  gold-beaters' 
skin,  and  many  more. 

See — here  is  a  Tailor-bee.  She  scrapes  the  cobwebby 
stalk  of  the  yellow-flowered  centaury,  and  gathers  a  ball 
of  wadding  which  she  carries  off  proudly  with  her 
mandibles  or  jaws.  She  will  turn  it,  underground,  into 
cotton  satchels  to  hold  the  store  of  honey  and  the  eggs. 
And  here  are  the  Leaf -cutting  Bees,  carrying  their  black, 
white,  or  blood-red  reaping  brushes  under  their  bodies. 
They  will  visit  the  neighbouring  shrubs,  and  there  cut 
from  the  leaves  oval  pieces  in  which  to  wrap  their  harvest. 
Here  too  are  the  black,  velvet-clad  Mason-bees,  who 
work  with  cement  and  gravel.  We  could  easily  find 
specimens  of  their  masonry  on  the  stones  in  the  harmas. 
Next  comes  a  kind  of  Wild  Bee  who  stacks  her  cells  in  the 
winding  staircase  of  an  empty  snail-shell;  and  another 
who  lodges  her  grubs  in  the  pith  of  a  dry  bramble-stalk ; 
and  a  third  who  uses  the  channel  of  a  cut  reed;  and  a 
fourth  who  lives  rent-free  in  the  vacant  galleries  of  some 
Mason-bee.  There  are  also  Bees  with  horns,  and  Bees 
with  brushes  on  their  hind-legs,  to  be  used  for  reaping. 

While  the  walls  of  my  harmas  were  being  built  some 
great  heaps  of  stones  and  mounds  of  sand  were  scattered 
here  and  there  by  the  builders,  and  were  soon  occupied 
by  a  variety  of  inhabitants.  The  Mason-bees  chose  the 

[8] 


MY  WORK  AND  MY  WORKSHOP 

chinks  between  the  stones  for  their  sleeping-place.  The 
powerful  Eyed  Lizard,  who,  when  hard  pressed,  attacks 
both  man  and  dog,  selected  a  cave  in  which  to  lie  in  wait 
for  the  passing  Scarab,  or  Sacred  Beetle.  The  Black- 
eared  Chat,  who  looks  like  a  Dominican  monk  in  his 
white-and-black  raiment,  sat  on  the  top  stone  singing  his 
brief  song.  His  nest,  with  the  sky-blue  eggs,  must  have 
been  somewhere  in  the  heap.  When  the  stones  were 
moved  the  little  Dominican  moved  too.  I  regret  him: 
he  would  have  been  a  charming  neighbour.  The  Eyed 
Lizard  I  do  not  regret  at  all. 

The  sand-heaps  sheltered  a  colony  of  Digger-wasps 
and  Hunting-wasps,  who  were,  to  my  sorrow,  turned  out 
at  last  by  the  builders.  But  still  there  are  hunters  left : 
some  who  flutter  about  in  search  of  Caterpillars,  and 
one  very  large  kind  of  Wasp  who  actually  has  the  cour- 
age to  hunt  the  Tarantula.  Many  of  these  mighty 
Spiders  have  their  burrows  in  the  harmas,  and  you  can 
see  their  eyes  gleaming  at  the  bottom  of  the  den  like 
little  diamonds.  On  hot  summer  afternoons  you  may 
also  see  Amazon-ants,  who  leave  their  barracks  in  long 
battalions  and  march  far  afield  to  hunt  for  slaves. 

Nor  are  these  all.  The  shrubs  about  the  house  are 
full  of  birds,  Warblers  and  Greenfinches,  Sparrows  and 
Owls;  while  the  pond  is  so  popular  with  the  Frogs  that 
in  May  it  becomes  a  deafening  orchestra.  And  boldest 

[9] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

of  all,  the  Wasp  has  taken  possession  of  the  house  itself. 
On  my  doorway  lives  the  White-banded  Sphex:  when 
I  go  indoors  I  must  be  careful  not  to  tread  upon  her  as 
she  carries  on  her  work  of  mining.  Just  within  a  closed 
window  a  kind  of  Mason-wasp  has  made  her  earth-built 
nest  upon  the  freestone  wall.  To  enter  her  home  she 
uses  a  little  hole  left  by  accident  in  the  shutters.  On 
the  mouldings  of  the  Venetian  blinds  a  few  stray  Mason- 
bees  build  their  cells.  The  Common  Wasp  and  the 
Solitary  Wasp  visit  me  at  dinner.  The  object  of  their 
visit,  apparently,  is  to  see  if  my  grapes  are  ripe. 

Such  are  my  companions.  My  dear  beasts,  my  friends 
of  former  days  and  other  more  recent  acquaintances,  are 
all  here,  hunting,  and  building,  and  feeding  their 
families.  And  if  I  wish  for  change  the  mountain  is 
close  to  me,  with  its  tangle  of  arbutus,  and  rock-roses, 
and  heather,  where  Wasps  and  Bees  delight  to  gather. 
And  that  is  why  I  deserted  the  town  for  the  village,  and 
came  to  Serignan  to  weed  my  turnips  and  water  my 
lettuces. 


[10] 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  SACRED  BEETLE 

'  X 

I 

THE  BALL 

IT  is  six  or  seven  thousand  years  since  the  Sacred 
Beetle  was  first  talked  about.  The  peasant  of 
ancient  Egypt,  as  he  watered  his  patch  of  onions 
in  the  spring,  would  see  from  time  to  time  a  fat  black 
insect  pass  close  by,  hurriedly  trundling  a  ball  backwards. 
He  would  watch  the  queer  rolling  thing  in  amazement, 
as  the  peasant  of  Provence  watches  it  to  this  day. 

The  early  Egyptians  fancied  that  this  ball  was  a 
symbol  of  the  earth,  and  that  all  the  Scarab's  actions 
were  prompted  by  the  movements  of  the  heavenly 
bodies.  So  much  knowledge  of  astronomy  in  a  Beetle 
seemed  to  them  almost  divine,  and  that  is  why  he  is  called 
the  Sacred  Beetle.  They  also  thought  that  the  ball  he 
rolled  on  the  ground  contained  the  egg,  and  that  the 
young  Beetle  came  out  of  it.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
it  is  simply  his  store  of  food. 

It  is  not  at  all  nice  food.     For  the  work  of  this  Beetle 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

is  to  scour  the  filth  from  the  surface  of  the  soil.  The  ball 
he  rolls  so  carefully  is  made  of  his  sweepings  from  the 
roads  and  fields. 

This  is  how  he  sets  about  it.  The  edge  of  his  broad, 
flat  head  is  notched  with  six  teeth  arranged  in  a  semi- 
circle, like  a  sort  of  curved  rake;  and  this  he  uses  for 
digging  and  cutting  up,  for  throwing  aside  the  stuff  he 
does  not  want,  and  scraping  together  the  food  he  chooses. 
His  bow-shaped  fore-legs  are  also  useful  tools,  for  they 
are  very  strong,  and  they  too  have  five  teeth  on  the  out- 
side. So  if  a  vigorous  effort  be  needed  to  remove  some 
obstacle  the  Scarab  makes  use  of  his  elbows,  that  is  to 
say  he  flings  his  toothed  legs  to  right  and  left,  and  clears 
a  space  with  an  energetic  sweep.  Then  he  collects  arm- 
fuls  of  the  stuff  he  has  raked  together,  and  pushes  it 
beneath  him,  between  the  four  hinder-legs.  These  are 
long  and  slender,  especially  the  last  pair,  slightly  bowed 
and  finished  with  a  sharp  claw.  The  Beetle  then  presses 
the  stuff  against  his  body  with  his  hind-legs,  curving 
it  and  spinning  it  round  and  round  till  it  forms  a  perfect 
ball.  In  a  moment  a  tiny  pellet  grows  to  the  size  of 
a  walnut,  and  soon  to  that  of  an  apple.  I  have  seen 
some  gluttons  manufacture  a  ball  as  big  as  a  man's  fist. 

When  the  ball  of  provisions  is  ready  it  must  be  moved 
to  a  suitable  place.  The  Beetle  begins  the  journey.  He 
clasps  the  ball  with  his  long  hind-legs  and  walks  with 

[12] 


THE  SACRED  BEETLE 

his  fore-legs,  moving  backwards  with  his  head  down  and 
his  hind-quarters  in  the  air.  He  pushes  his  load  behind 
him  by  alternate  thrusts  to  right  and  left.  One  would 
expect  him  to  choose  a  level  road,  or  at  least  a  gentle  in- 
cline. Not  at  all!  Let  him  find  himself  near  some 
steep  slope,  impossible  to  climb,  and  that  is  the  very  path 
the  obstinate  creature  will  attempt.  The  ball,  that  enor- 
mous burden,  is  painfully  hoisted  step  by  step,  with  in- 
finite precautions,  to  a  certain  height,  always  backwards. 
Then  by  some  rash  movement  all  this  toil  is  wasted: 
the  ball  rolls  down,  dragging  the  Beetle  with  it.  Once 
more  the  heights  are  climbed,  and  another  fall  is  the 
result.  Again  and  again  the  insect  begins  the  ascent. 
The  merest  trifle  ruins  everything;  a  grass-root  may  trip 
him  up  or  a  smooth  bit  of  gravel  make  him  slip,  and 
down  come  ball  and  Beetle,  all  mixed  up  together.  Ten 
or  twenty  times  he  will  start  afresh,  till  at  last  he  is 
successful,  or  else  sees  the  hopelessness  of  his  efforts 
and  resigns  himself  to  taking  the  level  road. 

Sometimes  the  Scarab  seems  to  enter  into  partnership 
with  a  friend.  This  is  the  way  in  which  it  usually  hap- 
pens. When  the  Beetle's  ball  is  ready  he  leaves  the 
crowd  of  workers,  pushing  his  prize  "backwards.  A 
neighbour,  whose  own  task  is  hardly  begun,  suddenly 
drops  his  work  and  runs  to  the  moving  ball,  to  lend  a 
hand  to  the  owner.  His  aid  seems  to  be  accepted 

[13] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

willingly.  But  the  new-comer  is  not  really  a  partner: 
he  is  a  robber.  To  make  one's  own  ball  needs  hard  work 
and  patience;  to  steal  one  ready-made,  or  to  invite  one- 
self to  a  neighbour's  dinner,  is  much  easier.  Some  thiev- 
ing Beetles  go  to  work  craftily,  others  use  violence. 

Sometimes  a  thief  comes  flying  up,  knocks  over  the 
owner  of  the  ball,  and  perches  himself  on  top  of  it. 
With  his  fore-legs  crossed  over  his  breast,  ready  to  hit 
out,  he  awaits  events.  If  the  owner  raises  himself  to 
seize  his  ball  the  robber  gives  him  a  blow  that  stretches 
him  on  his  back.  Then  the  owner  gets  up  and  shakes 
the  ball  till  it  begins  rolling,  and  perhaps  the  thief  falls 
off.  A  wrestling-match  follows.  The  two  Beetles 
grapple  with  one  another:  their  legs  lock  and  unlock, 
their  joints  intertwine,  their  horny  armour  clashes  and 
grates  with  the  rasping  sound  of  metal  under  a  file.  The 
one  who  is  successful  climbs  to  the  top  of  the  ball,  and 
after  two  or  three  attempts  to  dislodge  him  the  defeated 
Scarab  goes  off  to  make  himself  a  new  pellet.  I  have 
sometimes  seen  a  third  Beetle  appear,  and  rob  the  robber. 

But  sometimes  the  thief  bides  his  time  and  trusts  to 
cunning.  He  pretends  to  help  the  victim  to  roll  the 
food  along,  over  sandy  plains  thick  with  thyme,  over 
cart-ruts  and  steep  places,  but  he  really  does  very  little 
of  the  work,  preferring  to  sit  on  the  ball  and  do  nothing. 
When  a  suitable  place  for  a  burrow  is  reached  the  right- 


THE  SACRED  BEETLE 

ful  owner  begins  to  dig  with  his  sharp-edged  forehead 
and  toothed  legs,  flinging  armfuls  of  sand  behind  him, 
while  the  thief  clings  to  the  ball,  shamming  dead.  The 
cave  grows  deeper  and  deeper,  and  the  working  Scarab 
disappears  from  view.  Whenever  he  comes  to  the  sur- 
face he  glances  at  the  ball,  on  which  the  other  lies,  de- 
mure and  motionless,  inspiring  confidence.  But  as  the 
absences  of  the  owner  become  longer  the  thief  seizes  his 
chance,  and  hurriedly  makes  off  with  the  ball,  which  he 
pushes  behind  him  with  the  speed  of  a  pickpocket  afraid 
of  being  caught.  If  the  owner  catches  him,  as  some- 
times happens,  he  quickly  changes  his  position,  and  seems 
to  plead  as  an  excuse  that  the  pellet  rolled  down  the 
slope,  and  he  was  only  trying  to  stop  it!  And  the  two 
bring  the  ball  back  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

If  the  thief  has  managed  to  get  safely  away,  however, 
the  owner  can  only  resign  himself  to  his  loss,  which  he 
does  with  admirable  fortitude.  He  rubs  his  cheeks, 
sniffs  the  air,  flies  off,  and  begins  his  work  all  over  again. 
I  admire  and  envy  his  character. 

At  last  his  provisions  are  safely  stored.  His  burrow 
is  a  shallow  hole  about  the  size  of  a  man's  fist,  dug  in 
soft  earth  or  sand,  with  a  short  passage  to  the  surface, 
just  wide  enough  to  admit  the  ball.  As  soon  as  his  food 
is  rolled  into  this  burrow  the  Scarab  shuts  himself  in 
by  stopping  up  the  entrance  with  rubbish.  The  ball 

[15] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

fills  almost  the  whole  room :  the  banquet  rises  from  floor 
to  ceiling.  Only  a  narrow  passage  runs  between  it  and 
the  walls,  and  here  sit  the  banqueters,  two  at  most,  very 
often  only  one.  Here  the  Sacred  Beetle  feasts  day  and 
night,  for  a  week  or  a  fortnight  at  a  time,  without 
ceasing. 

II 

THE  PEAR 

As  I  have  already  said,  the  ancient  Egyptians  thought 
that  the  egg  of  the  Sacred  Beetle  was  within  the  ball 
that  I  have  been  describing.  I  have  proved  that  it 
is  not  so.  One  day  I  discovered  the  truth  about  the 
Scarab's  egg. 

A  young  shepherd  who  helps  me  in  his  spare  time 
came  to  me  one  Sunday  in  June  with  a  queer  thing  in 
his  hand.  It  was  exactly  like  a  tiny  pear  that  had  lost 
all  its  fresh  colour  and  had  turned  brown  in  rotting.  It 
was  firm  to  the  touch  and  very  graceful  in  shape,  though 
the  materials  of  which  it  was  formed  seemed  none  too 
nicely  chosen.  The  shepherd  assured  me  there  was  an 
egg  inside  it;  for  a  similar  pear,  crushed  by  accident  in 
the  digging,  had  contained  a  white  egg  the  size  of  a  grain 
of  wheat. 


THE  SACRED  BEETLE 

At  daybreak  the  next  morning  the  shepherd  and  I  went 
out  to  investigate  the  matter.  We  met  among  the  brows- 
ing sheep,  on  some  slopes  that  had  lately  been  cleared 
of  trees. 

A  Sacred  Beetle's  burrow  is  soon  found :  you  can  tell 
it  by  the  fresh  little  mound  of  earth  above  it.  My  com- 
panion dug  vigorously  into  the  ground  with  my  pocket 
trowel,  while  I  lay  down,  the  better  to  see  what  was  being 
unearthed.  A  cave  opened  out,  and  there  I  saw,  lying 
in  the  moist  earth,  a  splendid  pear  upon  the  ground.  I 
shall  not  soon  forget  my  first  sight  of  the  mother  Beetle's 
wonderful  work.  My  excitement  could  have  been  no 
greater  had  I,  in  digging  among  the  relics  of  ancient 
Egypt,  found  the  sacred  insect  carved  in  emerald. 

We  went  on  with  our  search,  and  found  a  second  hole. 
Here,  by  the  side  of  the  pear  and  fondly  embracing  it, 
was  the  mother  Beetle,  engaged  no  doubt  in  giving  it 
the  finishing  touches  before  leaving  the  burrow  for  good. 
There  was  no  possible  doubt  that  the  pear  was  the  nest 
of  the  Scarab.  In  the  course  of  the  summer  I  found  at 
least  a  hundred  such  nests. 

The  pear,  like  the  ball,  is  formed  of  refuse  scraped 
up  in  the  fields,  but  the  materials  are  less  coarse,  because 
they  are  intended  for  the  food  of  the  grub.  When  it 
comes  out  of  the  egg  it  is  incapable  of  searching  for  its 

[17] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

own  meals,  so  the  mother  arranges  that  it  shall  find  itself 
surrounded  by  the  food  that  suits  it  best.  It  can  begin 
eating  at  once,  without  further  trouble. 

The  egg  is  laid  in  the  narrow  end  of  the  pear.  Every 
germ  of  life,  whether  of  plant  or  animal,  needs  air :  even 
the  shell  of  a  bird's  egg  is  riddled  with  an  endless  number 
of  pores.  If  the  germ  of  the  Scarab  were  in  the  thick 
part  of  the  pear  it  would  be  smothered,  because  there  the 
materials  are  very  closely  packed,  and  are  covered  with 
a  hard  rind.  So  the  mother  Beetle  prepares  a  nice  airy 
room  with  thin  walls  for  her  little  grub  to  live  in,  during 
its  first  moments.  There  is  a  certain  amount  of  air  even 
in  the  very  centre  of  the  pear,  but  not  enough  for  a  deli- 
cate baby-grub.  By  the  time  he  has  eaten  his  way  to  the 
centre  he  is  strong  enough  to  manage  with  very  little  air. 

There  is,  of  course,  a  good  reason  for  the  hardness  of 
the  shell  that  covers  the  big  end  of  the  pear.  The 
Scarab's  burrow  is  extremely  hot:  sometimes  the  tem- 
perature reaches  boiling  point.  The  provisions,  even 
though  they  have  to  last  only  three  or  four  weeks,  are 
liable  to  dry  up  and  become  uneatable.  When,  instead 
of  the  soft  food  of  its  first  meal,  the  unhappy  grub  finds 
nothing  to  eat  but  horrible  crusty  stuff  as  hard  as  a  peb- 
ble, it  is  bound  to  die  of  hunger.  I  have  found  numbers 
of  these  victims  of  the  August  sun.  The  poor  things 
are  baked  in  a  sort  of  closed  oven.  To  lessen  this  danger 

[18] 


THE  SACRED  BEETLE 

the  mother  Beetle  compresses  the  outer  layer  of  the  pear 
— or  nest — with  all  the  strength  of  her  stout,  flat  fore- 
arms, to  turn  it  into  a  protecting  rind  like  the  shell  of 
a  nut.  This  helps  to  ward  off  the  heat.  In  the  hot 
summer  months  the  housewife  puts  her  bread  into  a 
closed  pan  to  keep  it  fresh.  The  insect  does  the  same  in 
its  own  fashion :  by  dint  of  pressure  it  covers  the  family 
bread  with  a  pan. 

I  have  watched  the  Sacred  Beetle  at  work  in  her  den, 
so  I  know  how  she  makes  her  pear-shaped  nest. 

With  the  building-materials  she  has  collected  she 
shuts  herself  up  underground  so  as  to  give  her  whole  at- 
tention to  the  business  in  hand.  The  materials  may  be 
obtained  in  two  ways.  As  a  rule,  under  natural  condi- 
tions, she  kneads  a  ball  in  the  usual  way  and  rolls  it  to 
a  favourable  spot.  As  it  rolls  along  it  hardens  a  little 
on  the  surface  and  gathers  a  slight  crust  of  earth  and 
tiny  grains  of  sand,  which  is  useful  later  on.  Now  and 
then,  however,  the  Beetle  finds  a  suitable  place  for  her 
burrow  quite  close  to  the  spot  where  she  collects  her 
building-materials,  and  in  that  case  she  simply  bundles 
armfuls  of  stuff  into  the  hole.  The  result  is  most  strik- 
ing. One  day  I  see  a  shapeless  lump  disappear  into  the 
burrow.  Next  day,  or  the  day  after,  I  visit  the  Beetle's 
workshop  and  find  the  artist  in  front  of  her  work.  The 

[19] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

formless  mass  of  scrapings  has  become  a  pear,  perfect 
in  outline  and  exquisitely  finished. 

The  part  that  rests  on  the  floor  of  the  burrow  is  crusted 
over  with  particles  of  sand,  while  the  rest  is  polished 
like  glass.  This  shows  that  the  Beetle  has  not  rolled 
the  pear  round  and  round,  but  has  shaped  it  where  it 
lies.  She  has  modelled  it  with  little  taps  of  her  broad 
feet,  just  as  she  models  her  ball  in  the  daylight. 

By  making  an  artificial  burrow  for  the  mother  Beetle 
in  my  own  workshop,  with  the  help  of  a  glass  jar  full 
of  earth,  and  a  peep-hole  through  which  I  can  observe 
operations,  I  -have  been  able  to  see  the  work  in  its  vari- 
ous stages. 

The  Beetle  first  makes  a  complete  ball.  Then  she 
starts  the  neck  of  the  pear  by  making  a  ring  round  the 
ball  and  applying  pressure,  till  the  ring  becomes  a  groove. 
In  this  way  a  blunt  projection  is  pushed  out  at  one  side 
of  the  ball.  In  the  centre  of  this  projection  she  employs 
further  pressure  to  form  a  sort  of  crater  or  hollow,  with 
a  swollen  rim;  and  gradually  the  hollow  is  made  deeper 
and  the  swollen  rim  thinner  and  thinner,  till  a  sack  is 
formed.  In  this  sack,  which  is  polished  and  glazed  in- 
side, the  egg  is  laid.  The  opening  of  the  sack,  or  extreme 
end  of  the  pear,  is  then  closed  with  a  plug  of  stringy 
fibres. 

There  is  a  reason  for  this  rough  plug — a  most  curious 

[20] 


THE  SACRED  BEETLE 

exception,  when  nothing  else  has  escaped  the  heavy  blows 
of  the  insect's  leg.  The  end  of  the  egg  rests  against  it, 
and,  if  the  stopper  were  pressed  down  and  driven  in, 
the  infant  grub  might  suffer.  So  the  Beetle  stops  the 
hole  without  ramming  down  the  stopper. 

in 

THE  GROWINOUP  OF  THE  SCARAB 

About  a  week  or  ten  days  after  the  laying  of  the  egg, 
the  grub  is  hatched,  and  without  delay  begins  to  eat  its 
house.  It  is  a  grub  of  remarkable  wisdom,  for  it  always 
starts  its  meal  with  the  thickest  part  of  the  walls,  and 
so  avoids  making  a  hole  through  which  it  might  fall  out 
of  the  pear  altogether.  It  soon  becomes  fat;  and  indeed 
it  is  an  ungainly  creature  at  best,  with  an  enormous 
hump  on  its  back,  and  a  skin  so  transparent  that  if  you 
hold  it  up  to  the  light  you  can  see  its  internal  organs. 
If  the  early  Egyptian  had  chanced  upon  this  plump 
white  grub  he  would  never  have  suspected  it  to  contain, 
in  an  undeveloped  state,  the  sober  beauty  of  the  Scarab ! 

When  first  it  sheds  its  skin  the!  insect  that  appears 
is  not  a  full-grown  Scarab,  though  all  the  Scarab's 
features  can  be  recognised.  There  are  few  insects  so 
beautiful  as  this  delicate  creature  with  its  wing-cases 
Iving  in  front  of  it  like  a  wide  pleated  scarf  and  its  fore- 

[21] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

legs  folded  under  its  head.  Half  transparent  and  as 
yellow  as  honey,  it  looks  as  though  it  were  carved  from 
a  block  of  amber.  For  four  weeks  it  remains  in  this 
state,  and  then  it  too  casts  its  skin. 

Its  colouring  now  is  red-and-white, — so  many  times 
does  the  Sacred  Beetle  change  its  garments  before  it 
finally  appears  black  as  ebony!  As  it  grows  blacker  it 
also  grows  harder,  till  it  is  covered  with  horny  armour 
and  is  a  full-grown  Beetle. 

All  this  time  he  is  underground,  in  the  pear-shaped 
nest.  Great  is  his  longing  to  burst  the  shell  of  his  prison 
and  come  into  the  sunshine.  Whether  he  succeeds  in 
doing  so  depends,  on  circumstances. 

It  is  generally  August  when  he  is  ready  for  release, 
and  August  as  a  rule  is  the  driest  and  hottest  month  of 
the  year.  If  therefore  no  rain  falls  to  soften  the  earth, 
the  cell  to  be  burst  and  the  wall  to  be  broken  defy  the 
strength  of  the  insect,  which  is  helpless  against  all  that 
hardness.  The  soft  material  of  the  nest  has  become  an 
impassable  rampart;  it  has  turned  into  a  sort  of  brick, 
baked  in  the  kiln  of  summer. 

I  have,  of  course,  made  experiments  on  insects  that 
are  ready  to  be  released.  I  lay  the  hard,  dry  shells  in 
a  box  where  they  remain  dry;  and  sooner  or  later  I  hear 
a  sharp,  grating  sound  inside  each  cell.  It  is  the 
prisoner  scraping  the  wall  with  the  rakes  on  his  fore- 

[22] 


THE  SACRED  BEETLE 

head  and  his  fore-feet.  Two  or  three  days  pass,  and 
no  progress  seems  to  have  been  made. 

I  try  to  help  a  couple  of  them  by  opening  a  loophole 
with  my  knife;  but  these  favoured  ones  make  no  more 
progress  than  the  others. 

In  less  than  a  fortnight  silence  reigns  in  all  the  shells. 
The  prisoners,  worn  out  with  their  efforts,  have  all  died. 

Then  I  take  some  other  shells,  as  hard  as  the  first, 
wrap  them  in  a  wet  rag,  and  put  them  in  a  corked  flask. 
When  the  moisture  has  soaked  through  them  I  rid  them 
of  the  wrapper,  but  keep  them  in  the  flask.  This  time 
the  experiment  is  a  complete  success.  Softened  by  the 
wet  the  shells  are  burst  by  the  prisoner,  who  props  him- 
self boldly  on  his  legs,  using  his  back  as  a  lever,  or  else 
scrapes  away  at  one  point  till  the  walls  crumble  to  pieces. 
In  every  case  the  Beetle  is  released. 

In  natural  conditions,  when  the  shells  remain  under- 
ground, the  same  thing  occurs.  When  the  soil  is  burnt 
by  the  August  sun  it  is  impossible  for  the  insect  to  wear 
away  his  prison,  which  is  hard  as  a  brick.  But  when 
a  shower  comes  the  shell  recovers  the  softness  of  its  early 
days :  the  insect  struggles  with  his  legs  and  pushes  with 
his  back,  and  so  becomes  free. 

At  first  he  shows  no  interest  in  food.  What  he  wants 
above  all  is  the  joy  of  the  light.  He  sets  himself  in 
the  sun,  and  there,  motionless,  basks  in  the  warmth. 

[23] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

Presently,  however,  he  wishes  to  eat.  With  no  one 
to  teach  him,  he  sets  to  work,  exactly  like  his  elders,  to 
make  himself  a  ball  of  food.  He  digs  his  burrow  and 
stores  it  with  provisions.  Without  ever  learning  it,  he 
knows  his  trade  to  perfection. 


[24] 


CHAPTER  III 


THE  CICADA 


THE  CICADA  AND   THE   ANT 

TO  most  of  us  the  Cicada's  song  is  unknown, 
for  he  lives  in  the  land  of  the  olive-trees. 
But  every  one  who  has  read  La  Fontaine's 
"Fables"  has  heard  of  the  snub  the  Cicada  received  from 
the  Ant,  though  La  Fontaine  was  not  the  first  to  tell 
the  tale. 

The  Cicada,  says  the  story,  did  nothing  but  sing  all 
through  the  summer,  while  the  Ants  were  busy  storing 
their  provisions.  When  winter  came  he  was  hungry, 
and  hurried  to  his  neighbour  to  borrow  some  food.  He 
met  with  a  poor  welcome. 

"Why  didn't  you  gather  your  food  in  the  summer?" 
asked  the  prudent  Ant. 

"I  was  busy  singing  all  the  summer,''  said  the  Cicada. 

"Singing,  were  you?"  answered  the  Ant  unkindly. 
"Well,  then,  now  you  may  dance!"  And  she  turned  her 
back  on  the  beggar. 

[25] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

Now  the  insect  in  this  fable  could  not  possibly  be 
a  Cicada.  La  Fontaine,  it  is  plain,  was  thinking  of  the 
Grasshopper  and  as  a  matter  of  fact  the  English  trans- 
lations usually  substitute  a  Grasshopper  for  the  Cicada. 

For  my  village  does  not  contain  a  peasant  so  ignorant 
as  to  imagine  the  Cicada  ever  exists  in  winter.  Every 
tiller  of  the  soil  is  familiar  with  the  grub  of  this  insect, 
which  he  turns  over  with  his  spade  whenever  he  banks 
up  the  olive-trees  at  the  approach  of  cold  weather.  A 
thousand  times  he  has  seen  the  grub  leave  the  ground 
through  a  round  hole  of  its  own  making,  fasten  itself  to 
a  twig,  split  its  own  back,  take  off  its  skin,  and  turn  into 
a  Cicada. 

The  fable  is  a  slander.  The  Cicada  is  no  beggar, 
though  it  is  true  that  he  demands  a  good  deal  of  atten- 
tion from  his  neighbours.  Every  summer  he  comes  and 
settles  in  his  hundreds  outside  my  door,  amid  the 
greenery  of  two  tall  plane-trees;  and  here,  from  sun- 
rise to  sunset,  he  tortures  my  head  with  the  rasping  of 
his  harsh  music.  This  deafening  concert,  this  incessant 
rattling  and  drumming,  makes  all  thought  impossible. 

It  is  true,  too,  that  there  are  sometimes  dealings 
between  the  Cicada  and  the  Ant;  but  they  are  exactly 
the  opposite  of  those  described  in  the  fable.  The  Cicada 
is  never  dependent  on  others  for  his  living.  At  no  time 
does  he  go  crying  famine  at  the  doors  of  the  Ant-hills. 

[26] 


THE  CICADA 

In  July,  when  most  of  the  insects  in  my  sunny  country  are 
parched  with  thirst,  the  Cicada  remains  perfectly  cheer  fid 


v\T 


Ckada. 

.^edowaotcon  -  HP>» 

as  t*»  toupee  the  Cicada  ever  ate,  <**•     Every 

?tikr  o!  tiic  soil  is  familiar  with  tfc*  gf«t»  of 

whkfj  he  turns  over  with  bis  ftfwrtfe  ^w 
«-p  the  o!tw«rees  at  rhe  approach  o<  c*i<)  «^g*«r. 
thousanfJ  ti?ne>  iif  ra^  seen  die  gmb  k**t  *^  ^a^n 
rKH-..iv.?h  a  tound  b*.>i»*  of  its  own  makitif.  |:j»«»ft-*W%  ** 
..T/hr  iu  own  i»ack,  take  off  its  skin, 


,«       :. 

-;  vr  frihie  is  ?  .tlaudcr.  The  Cicada  is  no  beggar* 
thc--j  it  is  tri-nf  thiit-  he  demands  a  good  deal  of  attcn- 
i-ioi]  from  h»'v  o"ighho«rs.  Every  sucnmer  he.  comes  and 
:^Uc  \ri  hl.s  hundrctl:*  outside  my  door,  amid  the 
Kreeiu-rv  ^  rwo  tail  -plane-trees;  and  here,  from  wn- 
Ti^  a*  *«nstr.  IK  «.opt.ures  my  Ixad  wtth  the  rasping  of 
hk  harsh  wu&ic.  Thb  deafening  concert,  tlm  incessant 
rart!«a»  and  dnimniing,  makes  all  thought  impossible. 

it  k  tn*«,  too,  ttet  there  are  soioetutie*  dealings 
between  the  Cicada  and  the  Ant;  but  they  are  exactly 
the  oppcmte  <rf  thm*  dcs^ibed  in  tile  fabk.    The  CicwU 
i«  atver  4epeadent  on-  others  for  his  Uvkig,     At  no  » 
dots  he  9>  ctpying  famine  at  the  <ioor^  of  the  Ani-h&k, 

^ 


THE  CICADA 

On  the  contrary,  it  is  the  Ant  who,  driven  by  hunger, 
begs  and  entreats  the  singer.  Entreats,  did  I  say?  It 
is  not  the  right  word.  She  brazenly  robs  him. 

In  July,  when  most  of  the  insects  in  my  sunny  country 
are  parched  with  thirst,  and  vainly  wander  round  the 
withered  flowers  in  search  of  refreshment,  the  Cicada 
remains  perfectly  cheerful.  With  his  rostrum — the  deli- 
cate sucker,  sharp  as  a  gimlet,  that  he  carries  on  his  chest 
•—he  broaches  a  cask  in  his  inexhaustible  cellar.  Sitting, 
always  singing,  on  the  branch  of  a  shrub,  lie  bores  through 
the  firm,  smooth  bark,  which  is  swollen  with  sap.  Driv- 
ing his  sucker  through  the  bunghole,  he  drinks  his  fill. 

If  I  watch  him  for  a  little  while  I  may  perhaps  see 
him  in  unexpected  trouble.  There  are  many  thirsty 
insects  in  the  neighbourhood,  who  soon  discover  the  sap 
that  oozes  from  the  Cicada's  well.  They  hasten  up,  at 
first  quietly  and  discreetly,  to  lick  the  fluid  as  it  comes 
out.  I  see  Wasps,  Flies,  Earwigs,  Rose-chafers,  and 
above  all,  Ants. 

The  smallest,  in  order  to  reach  the  well,  slip  under 
the  body  of  the  Cicada,  who  good-naturedly  raises  him- 
self on  his  legs  to  let  them  pass.  The  larger  insects 
snatch  a  sip,  retreat,  take  a  walk  on  a  neighbouring 
branch,  and  then  return  more  eager  and  enterprising 
than  before.  They  now  become  violent  brigands,  deter- 
mined to  chase  the  Cicada  away  from  his  well. 

[27] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

The  worst  offenders  are  the  Ants.  I  have  seen  them 
nibbling  at  the  ends  of  the  Cicada's  legs,  tugging  at  the 
tips  of  his  wings,  and  climbing  on  his  back.  Once  a 
bold  robber,  before  my  very  eyes,  caught  hold  of  a  Ci- 
cada's sucker  and  tried  to  pull  it  out. 

At  last,  worried  beyond  all  patience,  the  singer  deserts 
the  well  he  has  made.  The  Ant  has  now  attained  her 
object:  she  is  left  in  possession  of  the  spring.  This 
dries  up  very  soon,  it  is  true;  but,  having  drunk  all  the 
sap  that  is  there,  she  can  wait  for  another  drink  till  she 
has  a  chance  of  stealing  another  well. 

So  you  see  that  the  actual  facts  are  just  the  reverse 
of  those  in  the  fable.  The  Ant  is  the  hardened  beggar : 
the  industrious  worker  is  the  Cicada. 


ii 


THE  CICADA'S  BURROW 


I  am  in  an  excellent  position  to  study  the  habits  of  the 
Cicada,  for  I  live  in  his  company.  When  July  comes  he 
takes  possession  of  the  enclosures  right  up  to  the  threshold 
of  the  house.  I  remain  master  indoors,  but  out  of  doors 
he  reigns  supreme,  and  his  reign  is  by  no  means  a  peace- 
ful one. 

The  first  Cicadae  appear  at  midsummer.  In  the  much- 
trodden,  sun-baked  paths  I  see,  level  with  the  ground, 

[28] 


THE  CICADA 

round  holes  about  the  size  of  a  man's  thumb.  Through 
these  holes  the  Cicada-grubs  come  up  from  the  under- 
ground to  be  transformed  into  full-grown  Cicadae  on  the 
surface.  Their  favourite  places  are  the  driest  and 
sunniest;  for  these  grubs  are  provided  with  such  powerful 
tools  that  they  can  bore  through  baked  earth  or  sandstone. 
When  I  examine  their  deserted  burrows  I  have  to  use 
my  pickaxe. 

The  first  thing  one  notices  is  that  the  holes,  which 
measure  nearly  an  inch  across,  have  absolutely  no  rubbish 
round  them.  There  is  no  mound  of  earth  thrown  up 
outside.  Most  of  the  digging  insects,  such  as  the  Dor- 
beetles  for  instance,  make  a  mole-hill  above  their 
burrows.  The  reason  for  this  difference  lies  in  their 
manner  of  working.  The  Dorbeetle  begins  his  work  at 
the  mouth  of  the  hole,  so  he  can  heap  up  on  the  surface  the 
material  he  digs  out:  but  the  Cicada-grub  comes  up 
from  below.  The  last  thing  he  does  is  to  make  the  door- 
way, and  he  cannot  heap  rubbish  on  a  threshold  that  does 
not  yet  exist. 

The  Cicada's  tunnel  runs  to  a  depth  of  fifteen  or  six- 
teen inches.  It  is  quite  open  the  whole  way.  It  ends 
in  a  rather  wider  space,  but  is  completely  closed  at  the 
bottom.  What  has  become  of  the  earth  removed  to  make 
this  tunnel?  And  why  do  not  the  walls  crumble?  One 
would  expect  that  the  grub,  climbing  up  and  down  with 

[29] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

his  clawed  legs,  would  make  landslips  and  block  up 
his  own  house. 

Well,  he  behaves  like  a  miner  or  a  railway-engineer. 
The  miner  holds  up  his  galleries  with  pit-props;  the 
builder  of  railways  strengthens  his  tunnel  with  a  casing 
of  brickwork;  the  Cicada  is  as  clever  as  either  of  them, 
and  covers  the  walls  of  his  tunnel  with  cement.  He 
carries  a  store  of  sticky  fluid  hidden  within  him,  with 
which  to  make  this  plaster.  His  burrow  is  always  built 
above  some  tiny  rootlet  containing  sap,  and  from  this  root 
he  renews  his  supply  of  fluid. 

It  is  very  important  for  him  to  be  able  to  run  up  and 
down  his  burrow  at  his  ease,  because,  when  the  time  comes 
for  him  to  find  his  way  into  the  sunshine,  he  wants  to 
know  what  the  weather  is  like  outside.  So  he  works  away 
for  weeks,  perhaps  for  months,  to  make  a  funnel  with 
good  strong  plastered  walls,  on  which  he  can  clamber. 
At  the  top  he  leaves  a  layer  as  thick  as  one's  finger,  to 
protect  him  from  the  outer  air  till  the  last  moment.  At 
the  least  hint  of  fine  weather  he  scrambles  up,  and, 
through  the  thin  lid  at  the  top,  inquires  into  the  state  of 
the  weather. 

If  he  suspects  a  storm  or  rain  on  the  surface — matter  of 
great  importance  to  a  delicate  grub  when  he  takes  off  his 
skin ! — he  slips  prudently  back  to  the  bottom  of  his  snug 
funnel.  But  if  the  weather  seems  warm  he  smashes  his 

[30] 


THE  CICADA 

ceiling  with  a  few  strokes  of  his  claws,  and  climbs  to 
the  surface. 

It  is  the  fluid  substance  carried  by  the  Cicada-grub  in 
his  swollen  body  that  enables  him  to  get  rid  of  the  rubbish 
in  his  burrow.  As  he  digs  he  sprinkles  the  dusty  earth 
and  turns  it  into  paste.  The  walls  then  become  soft  and 
yielding.  The  mud  squeezes  into  the  chinks  of  the  rough 
soil,  and  the  grub  compresses  it  with  his  fat  body.  This 
is  why,  when  he  appears  at  the  top,  he  is  always  covered 
with  wet  stains. 

For  some  time  after  the  Cicada-grub's  first  appearance 
above-ground  he  wanders  about  the  neighbourhood, 
looking  for  a  suitable  spot  in  which  to  cast  off  his  skin — a 
tiny  bush,  a  tuft  of  thyme,  a  blade  of  grass,  or  the  twig  of 
a  shrub.  When  he  finds  it  he  climbs  up,  and  clings  to 
it  firmly  with  the  claws  of  his  fore-feet.  His  fore-legs 
stiffen  into  an  immovable  grip. 

Then  his  outer  skin  begins  to  split  along  the  middle 
of  the  back,  showing  the  pale-green  Cicada  within. 
Presently  the  head  is  free;  then  the  sucker  and  front  legs 
appear,  and  finally  the  hind-legs  and  the  rumpled  wings. 
The  whole  insect  is  free  now,  except  the  extreme  tip  of 
his  body. 

He  next  performs  a  wonderful  gymnastic  feat.  High 
in  the  air  as  he  is,  fixed  to  his  old  skin  at  one  point 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

only,  he  turns  himself  over  till  his  head  is  hanging 
downwards.  His  crumpled  wings  straighten  out,  un- 
furl, and  spread  themselves.  Then  with  an  almost  in- 
visible movement  he  draws  himself  up  again  by  sheer 
strength,  and  hooks  his  fore-legs  on  to  his  empty  skin. 
This  movement  has  released  the  tip  of  his  body  from  its 
sheath.  The  whole  operation  has  taken  about  half  an 
hour. 

For  a  time  the  freed  Cicada  does  not  feel  very  strong. 
He  must  bathe  in  air  and  sunshine  before  strength  and 
colour  come  to  his  frail  body.  Hanging  to  his  cast  skin 
by  his  fore-claws  only,  he  sways  at  the  least  breath  of 
air,  still  feeble  and  still  green.  But  at  last  the  brown 
tinge  appears,  and  is  soon  general.  Supposing  him  to 
have  taken  possession  of  the  twig  at  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  the  Cicada  flies  away  at  half-past  twelve,  leav- 
ing his  cast  skin  behind  him.  Sometimes  it  hangs  from 
the  twigs  for  months. 


in 


THE  CICADA'S  MUSIC 


The  Cicada,  it  appears,  loves  singing  for  its  own 
sake.  Not  content  with  carrying  an  instrument  called 
the  cymbal  in  a  cavity  behind  his  wings,  he  increases 
its  power  by  means  of  sounding-boards  under  his  chest. 

[32] 


THE  CICADA 

Indeed,  there  is  one  kind  of  Cicada  who  sacrifices  a  great 
deal  in  order  to  give  full  play  to  his  musical  tastes.  He 
carries  such  an  enormous  sounding-board  that  there  is 
hardly  any  room  left  for  his  vital  organs,  which  are 
squeezed  into  a  tiny  corner.  Assuredly  one  must  be 
passionately  devoted  to  music  thus  to  clear  away  one's 
internal  organs  in  order  to  make  room  for  a  musical  box ! 

Unfortunately  the  song  he  loves  so  much  is  extremely 
unattractive  to  others.  Nor  have  I  yet  discovered  its 
object.  It  is  usually  suggested  that  he  is  calling  his 
mate;  but  the  facts  appear  to  contradict  this  idea. 

For  fifteen  years  the  Common  Cicada  has  thrust  his 
society  upon  me.  Every  summer  for  two  months  I 
have  these  insects  before  my  eyes,  and  their  song  in  my 
ears.  I  see  them  ranged  in  rows  on  the  smooth  bark  of 
the  plane-trees,  the  maker  of  music  and  his  mate  sitting 
side  by  side.  With  their  suckers  driven  into  the  tree 
they  drink,  motionless.  As  the  sun  turns  they  also  turn 
round  the  branch  with  slow,  sidelong  steps,  to  find  the 
hottest  spot.  Whether  drinking  or  moving  they  never 
cease  singing. 

It  seems  unlikely,  therefore,  that  they  are  calling 
their  mates.  You  do  not  spend  months  on  end  calling 
to  some  one  who  is  at  your  elbow. 

Indeed,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  Cicada  him- 

[33] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

self  cannot  even  hear  the  song  he  sings  with  so  much 
apparent  delight.  This  might  account  for  the  relentless 
way  in  which  he  forces  his  music  upon  others. 

He  has  very  clear  sight.  His  five  eyes  tell  him  what 
is  happening  to  right  and  to  left  and  above  his  head; 
and  the  moment  he  sees  any  one  coming  he  is  silent  and 
flies  away.  Yet  no  noise  disturbs  him.  Place  yourself 
behind  him,  and  then  talk,  whistle,  clap  your  hands, 
and  knock  two  stones  together.  For  much  less  than  this 
a  bird,  though  he  would  not  see  you,  would  fly  away 
terrified.  The  imperturbable  Cicada  gones  on  rattling 
as  though  nothing  were  there. 

On  one  occasion  I  borrowed  the  local  artillery,  that 
is  to  say  the  guns  that  are  fired  on  feast-days  in  the  vil- 
lage. There  were  two  of  them,  and  they  were  crammed 
with  powder  as  though  for  the  most  important  rejoicings. 
They  were  placed  at  the  foot  of  the  plane-trees  in  front 
of  my  door.  We  were  careful  to  leave  the  windows 
open,  to  prevent  the  panes  from  breaking.  The  Cicada 
in  the  branches  overhead  could  not  see  what  was 
happening. 

Six  of  us  waited  below,  eager  to  hear  what  would  be 
the  effect  on  the  orchestra  above. 

Bang!  The  gun  went  off  with  a  noise  like  a  thunder- 
clap. 

Quite  unconcerned,  the  Cicadae  continued  to  sing. 

[34] 


THE  CICADA 

Not  one  appeared  in  the  least  disturbed.  There  was 
no  change  whatever  in  the  quality  or  the  quantity  of 
the  sound.  The  second  gun  had  no  more  effect  than  the 
first. 

I  think,  after  this  experiment,  we  must  admit  that  the 
Cicada  is  hard  of  hearing,  and  like  a  very  deaf  man,  it, 
quite  unconscious  that  he  is  making  a  noise. 


IV 


THE  CICADA'S  EGGS 

The  Common  Cicada  likes  to  lay  her  eggs  on  small 
dry  branches.  She  chooses,  as  far  as  possible,  tiny 
stalks,  which  may  be  of  any  size  between  that  of  a  straw 
and  a  lead-pencil.  The  sprig  is  never  lying  on  the 
ground,  is  usually  nearly  upright  in  position,  and  is  al- 
most always  dead. 

Having  found  a  twig  to  suit  her,  she  makes  a  row  of 
pricks  with  the  sharp  instrument  on  her  chest — such 
pricks  as  might  be  made  with  a  pin  if  it  were  driven 
downwards  on  a  slant,  so  as  to  tear  the  fibres  and  force 
them  slightly  upwards.  If  she  is  undisturbed  she  will 
make  thirty  or  forty  of  these  pricks  on  the  same  twig. 

In  the  tiny  cells  formed  by  these  pricks  she  lays  her 
eggs.  The  cells  are  narrow  passages,  each  one  slanting 
down  towards  the  one  below  it.  I  generally  find  about 

[35] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

ten  eggs  in  each  cell,  so  it  is  plain  that  the  Cicada  lays 
between  three  and  four  hundred  eggs  altogether. 

This  is  a  fine  family  for  one  insect.  The  numbers 
point  to  some  special  danger  that  threatens  the  Cicada, 
and  makes  it  necessary  to  produce  a  great  quantity  of 
grubs  lest  some  should  be  destroyed.  After  many  obser- 
vations I  have  discovered  what  this  danger  is.  It  is 
an  extremely  tiny  Gnat,  compared  with  which  the 
Cicada  is  a  monster. 

This  Gnat,  like  the  Cicada,  carries  a  boring-tool.  It 
is  planted  beneath  her  body,  near  the  middle,  and  sticks 
out  at  right  angles.  As  fast  as  the  Cicada  lays  her  eggs 
the  Gnat  tries  to  destroy  them.  It  is  a  real  scourge  to 
the  Cicada  family.  It  is  amazing  to  watch  her  calm  and 
brazen  audacity  in  the  presence  of  the  giant  who  could 
crush  her  by  simply  stepping  on  her.  I  have  seen  as 
many  as  three  preparing  to  despoil  one  unhappy  Cicada 
at  the  same  time,  standing  close  behind  one  another. 

The  Cicada  has  just  stocked  a  cell  with  eggs,  and  is 
climbing  a  little  higher  to  make  another  cell.  One  of 
the  brigands  runs  to  the  spot  she  has  just  left;  and  here, 
almost  under  the  claws  of  the  monster,  as  calmly  and 
fearlessly  as  though  she  were  at  home,  the  Gnat  bores 
a  second  hole  above  the  Cicada's  eggs,  and  places  among 
them  an  egg  of  her  own.  By  the  time  the  Cicada  flies 
away  most  of  her  cells  have,  in  this  way,  received  a 

[36] 


THE  CICADA 

stranger's  egg,  which  will  be  the  ruin  of  hers.  A  small 
quick-hatching  grub,  one  only  to  each  cell,  handsomely 
fed  on  a  dozen  raw  eggs,  will  take  the  place  of  the 
Cicada's  family. 

This  deplorable  mother  has  learnt  nothing  from 
centuries  of  experience.  Her  large  and  excellent  eyes 
cannot  fail  to  see  the  terrible  felons  fluttering  round  her. 
She  must  know  they  are  at  her  heels,  and  yet  she  remains 
unmoved,  and  lets  herself  be  victimised.  She  could 
easily  crush  the  wicked  atoms,  but  she  is  incapable  of 
altering  her  instincts,  even  to  save  her  family  from 
destruction. 

Through  my  magnifying-glass  I  have  seen  the  hatch- 
ing of  the  Cicada's  eggs.  When  the  grub  first  appears 
it  has  a  marked  likeness  to  an  extremely  small  fish,  with 
large  black  eyes,  and  a  curious  sort  of  mock  fin  under 
its  body,  formed  of  the  two  fore-legs  joined  together. 
This  fin  has  some  power  of  movement,  and  helps  the 
grub  to  work  its  way  out  of  the  shell,  and  also— a  much 
more  difficult  matter — out  of  the  fibrous  stem  in  which 
it  is  imprisoned. 

As  soon  as  this  fish-like  object  has  made  its  way  out 
of  the  cell  it  sheds  its  skin.  But  the  cast  skin  forms 
itself  into  a  thread,  by  which  the  grub  remains  fastened 
to  the  twig  or  stem.  Here,  before  dropping  to  the 
ground,  it  treats  itself  to  a  sun-bath,  kicking  about  and 

[37] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

trying  its  strength,  or  swinging  lazily  at  the  end  of  its 
rope. 

Its  antennae  now  are  free,  and  wave  about;  its  legs 
work  their  joints;  those  in  front  open  and  shut  their 
claws.  I  know  hardly  any  more  curious  sight  than  this 
tiny  acrobat  hanging  by  the  tip  of  its  body,  swinging  at 
the  least  breath  of  wind,  and  making  ready  in  the  air 
for  its  somersault  into  the  world. 

Sooner  or  later,  without  losing  much  time,  it  drops 
to  the  ground.  The  little  creature,  no  bigger  than  a 
Flea,  has  saved  its  tender  body  from  the  rough  earth 
by  swinging  on  its  cord.  It  has  hardened  itself  in  the 
air,  that  luxurious  eiderdown.  It  now  plunges  into  the 
stern  realities  of  life. 

I  see  a  thousand  dangers  ahead  of  it.  The  merest 
breath  of  wind  could  blow  it  on  to  the  hard  rock,  or  into 
the  stagnant  water  in  some  deep  cart-rut,  or  on  the 
sand  where  nothing  grows,  or  else  on  a  clay  soil,  too 
tough  for  it  to  dig  in. 

The  feeble  creature  needs  shelter  at  once,  and  must 
look  for  an  underground  refuge.  The  days  are  growing 
cold,  and  delays  are  fatal  to  it.  It  must  wander  about 
in  search  of  soft  soil,  and  no  doubt  many  die  before 
they  find  it. 

When  at  last  it  discovers  the  right  spot  it  attacks  the 
earth  with  the  hooks  on  its  fore-feet.  Through  the  mag- 

[38] 


THE  CICADA 

nifying-glass  I  watch  it  wielding  its  pickaxes,  and  raking 
an  atom  of  earth  to  the  surface.  In  a  few  minutes  a 
well  has  been  scooped  out.  The  little  creature  goes 
down  into  it,  buries  itself,  and  is  henceforth  invisible. 

The  underground  life  of  the  undeveloped  Cicada 
remains  a  secret.  But  we  know  how  long  it  remains 
in  the  earth  before  it  comes  to  the  surface  and  becomes 
a  full-grown  Cicada.  For  four  years  it  lives  below  the 
soil.  Then  for  about  five  weeks  it  sings  in  the  sunshine. 

Four  years  of  hard  work  in  the  darkness,  and  a  month 
of  delight  in  the  sun — such  is  the  Cicada's  life.  We 
must  not  blame  him  for  the  noisy  triumph  of  his  song. 
For  four  years  he  has  dug  the  earth  with  his  feet,  and 
then  suddenly  he  is  dressed  in  exquisite  raiment,  pro- 
vided with  wings  that  rival  the  bird's,  and  bathed  in 
heat  and  light!  What  cymbals  can  be  loud  enough 
to  celebrate  his  happiness,  so  hardly  earned,  and  so 
very,  very  short? 


[39] 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE  PRAYING  MANTIS 


HER  HUNTING 

THERE  is  an  insect  of  the  south  that  is  quite  as 
interesting  as  the  Cicada,  but  much  less  famous, 
because  it  makes  no  noise.  Had  it  been  pro- 
vided with  cymbals,  its  renown  would  have  been  greater 
than  the  celebrated  musician's,  for  it  is  most  unusual 
both  in  shape  and  habits. 

A  long  time  ago,  in  the  days  of  ancient  Greece,  this 
insect  was  named  Mantis,  or  the  Prophet.  The  peasant 
saw  her  on  the  sun-scorched  grass,  standing  half-erect 
in  a  very  imposing  and  majestic  manner,  with  her  broad 
green  gossamer  wings  trailing  like  long  veils,  and  her 
fore-legs,  like  arms,  raised  to  the  sky  as  though  in  prayer. 
To  the  peasant's  ignorance  the  insect  seemed  like  a 
priestess  or  a  nun,  and  so  she  came  to  be  called  the 
Praying  Mantis. 

There  was  never  a  greater  mistake!  Those  pious 
airs  are  a  fraud;  those  arms  raised  in  prayer  are  really 
the  most  horrible  weapons,  which  slay  whatever  passes 

[40] 


THE  PRAYING  MANTIS 

within  reach.  The  Mantis  is  fierce  as  a  tigress,  cruel  as 
an  ogress.  She  feeds  only  on  living  creatures. 

There  is  nothing  in  her  appearance  to  inspire  dread. 
She  is  not  without  a  certain  beauty,  with  her  slender, 
graceful  figure,  her  pale-green  colouring,  and  her  long 
gauze  wings.  Having  a  flexible  neck,  she  can  move  her 
head  freely  in  all  directions.  She  is  the  only  insect  that 
can  direct  her  gaze  wherever  she  will.  She  almost  has 
a  face. 

Great  is  the  contrast  between  this  peaceful-looking 
body  and  the  murderous  machinery  of  the  fore-legs. 
The  haunch  is  very  long  and  powerful,  while  the  thigh 
is  even  longer,  and  carries  on  its  lower  surface  two  rows 
of  sharp  spikes  or  teeth.  Behind  these  teeth  are  three 
spurs.  In  short,  the  thigh  is  a  saw  with  two  blades, 
between  which  the  leg  lies  when  folded  back. 

This  leg  itself  is  also  a  double-edged  saw,  provided 
with  a  greater  number  of  teeth  than  the  thigh.  It  ends 
in  a  strong  hook  with  a  point  as  sharp  as  a  needle,  and 
a  double  blade  like  a  curved  pruning-knife.  I  have 
many  painful  memories  of  this  hook.  Many  a  time, 
when  Mantis-hunting,  I  have  been  clawed  by  the  insect 
and  forced  to  ask  somebody  else  to  release  me.  No  in- 
sect in  this  part  of  the  world  is  so  troublesome  to  handle. 
The  Mantis  claws  you  with  her  pruning-hooks,  pricks  you 
with  her  spikes,  seizes  you  in  her  vice,  and  makes  self- 

[41] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

defence  impossible  if  you  wish  to  keep  your  captive  alive. 

When  at  rest,  the  trap  is  folded  back  against  the 
chest  and  looks  quite  harmless.  There  you  have  the 
insect  praying.  But  if  a  victim  passes  by,  the  appear- 
ance of  prayer  is  quickly  dropped.  The  three  long 
divisions  of  the  trap  are  suddenly  unfolded,  and  the 
prey  is  caught  with  the  sharp  hook  at  the  end  of  them, 
and  drawn  back  between  the  two  saws.  Then  the  vice 
closes,  and  all  is  over.  Locusts,  Grasshoppers,  and 
even  stronger  insects  are  helpless  against  the  four  rows 
of  teeth. 

It  is  impossible  to  make  a  complete  study  of  the  habits 
of  the  Mantis  in  the  open  fields,  so  I  am  obliged  to  take 
her  indoors.  She  can  live  quite  happily  in  a  pan  filled 
with  sand  and  covered  with  a  gauze  dish-cover,  if  only 
she  be  supplied  with  plently  of  fresh  food.  In  order  to 
find  out  what  can  be  done  by  the  strength  and  daring 
of  the  Mantis,  I  provide  her  not  only  with  Locusts  and 
Grasshoppers,  but  also  with  the  largest  Spiders  of  the 
neighbourhood.  This  is  what  I  see. 

A  grey  Locust,  heedless  of  danger,  walks  towards  the 
Mantis.  The  latter  gives  a  convulsive  shiver,  and  sud- 
denly, in  the  most  surprising  way,  strikes  an  attitude 
that  fills  the  Locust  with  terror,  and  is  quite  enough  to 
startle  any  one.  You  see  before  you  unexpectedly  a 
sort  of  bogy-man  or  Jack-in-the-box.  The  wing-covers 

[42] 


THE  PRAYING  MANTIS 

4  long  time  ago,  in  the  days  of  ancient  Greece,  this  insect  was 
named  Mantis,  or  the  Prophet 


. 


?M  !      . 

_    }  ,     ?.v  \\\T        j; 

\ 


mi  looks  quite  harmR**-     "T&m  $«*  tow*  the 
preying.     But  if  a  trktim  f*ww*  fcy,  rne  appear- 
<if  prayer  is  quick  ty  dw\*i*:&     T>t^  tiirtc  k*ng 

iii  visions  of  the  t.r«p  arc  suddenly 
|>r**  is  fraught  with  thr  s-^aq>  hook  a 
drawn  bj-:k  ^ci'-vren  thf?  rwf.-  s:i\» 


e 


ietc  study  of  the  habits 

.^<>  I  am  obliged  to  takt 

iiappiiy  in  a  pan  filled 

-iu/t  saish-rover,  if  only 

•  :c-:    HHKJ.     In  order  to 

Jir  -.-iren^th  ;ind  daruig 


d!k^  te*»r&  ihe 
shiver*  ap-vi  .^d- 

t  &UH  v<  *ay,  strikes  AH  attitude 
S;  ^  tb  c  i  -<t  sjtd  i}>  qaiif  enough  to 
You  ^ec  ^tt^«  t*  wr^^^tctjh 

or 


THE  PRAYING  MANTIS 

open;  the  wings  spread  to  their  full  extent  and  stand 
erect  like  sails,  towering  over  the  insect's  back;  the  tip 
of  the  body  curls  up  like  a  crook,  rising  and  falling  with 
short  jerks,  and  making  a  sound  like  the  puffing  of  a 
startled  Adder.  Planted  defiantly  on  its  four  hind-legs, 
the  Mantis  holds  the  front  part  of  its  body  almost  up- 
right. The  murderous  legs  open  wide,  and  show  a  pat- 
tern of  black-and-white  spots  beneath  them. 

In  this  strange  attitude  the  Mantis  stands  motionless, 
with  eyes  fixed  on  her  prey.  If  the  Locust  moves,  the 
Mantis  turns  her  head.  The  object  of  this  performance 
is  plain.  It  is  intended  to  strike  terror  into  the  heart 
of  the  victim,  to  paralyse  it  with  fright  before  attacking 
it.  The  Mantis  is  pretending  to  be  a  ghost ! 

The  plan  is  quite  successful.  The  Locust  sees  a 
spectre  before  him,  and  gazes  at  it  without  moving.  He 
to  whom  leaping  is  so  easy  makes  no  attempt  at  escape. 
He  stays  stupidly  where  he  is,  or  even  draws  nearer  with 
a  leisurely  step. 

As  soon  as  he  is  within  reach  of  the  Mantis  she  strikes 
with  her  claws;  her  double  saws  close  and  clutch;  the 
poor  wretch  protests  in  vain;  the  cruel  ogress  begins  her 
meal. 

The  pretty  Crab  Spider  stabs  her  victim  in  the  neck, 
in  order  to  poison  it  and  make  it  helpless.  In  the  same 
way  the  Mantis  attacks  the  Locust  first  at  the  back  of  the 

[43] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

neck,  to  destroy  its  power  of  movement.  This  enables 
her  to  kill  and  eat  an  insect  as  big  as  herself,  or  even 
bigger.  It  is  amazing  that  the  greedy  creature  can  con- 
tain so  much  food. 

The  various  Digger-wasps  receive  visits  from  her 
pretty  frequently.  Posted  near  the  burrows  on  a  bram- 
ble, she  waits  for  chance  to  bring  near  her  a  double  prize, 
the  Hunting-wasp  and  the  prey  she  is  bringing  home. 
For  a  long  time  she  waits  in  vain;  for  the  Wasp  is  sus- 
picious and  on  her  guard:  still,  now  and  then  a  rash 
one  is  caught.  With  a  sudden  rustle  of  wings  the 
Mantis  terrifies  the  new-comer,  who  hesitates  for  a  mo- 
ment in  her  fright.  Then,  with  the  sharpness  of  a 
spring,  the  Wasp  is  fixed  as  in  a  trap  between  the  blades 
of  the  double  saw — the  toothed  fore-arm  and  toothed 
upper-arm  of  the  Mantis.  The  victim  is  then  gnawed 
in  small  mouthfuls. 

I  once  saw  a  Bee-eating  Wasp,  while  carrying  a  Bee 
to  her  storehouse,  attacked  and  caught  by  a  Mantis. 
The  Wasp  was  in  the  act  of  eating  the  honey  she  had 
found  in  the  Bee's  crop.  The  double  saw  of  the  Mantis 
closed  suddenly  on  the  feasting  Wasp ;  but  neither  terror 
nor  torture  could  persuade  that  greedy  creature  to  leave 
off  eating.  Even  while  she  was  herself  being  actually 
devoured  she  continued  to  lick  the  honey  from  her  Bee ! 

I  regret  to  say  that  the  meals  of  this  savage  ogress 

[44] 


THE  PRAYING  MANTIS 

are  not  confined  to  other  kinds  of  insects.  For  all  her 
sanctimonious  airs  she  is  a  cannibal.  She  will  eat  her 
sister  as  calmly  as  though  she  were  a  Grasshopper;  and 
those  around  her  will  make  no  protest,  being  quite  ready 
to  do  the  same  on  the  first  opportunity.  Indeed,  she  even 
makes  a  habit  of  devouring  her  mate,  whom  she  seizes 
by  the  neck  and  then  swallows  by  little  mouthfuls,  leav- 
ing only  the  wings. 

She  is  worse  than  the  Wolf;  for  it  is  said  that  even 
Wolves  never  eat  each  other. 

II 

HER  NEST 

After  all,  however,  the  Mantis  has  her  good  points, 
like  most  people.  She  makes  a  most  marvellous  nest. 

This  nest  is  to  be  found  more  or  less  everywhere  in 
sunny  places:  on  stones,  wood,  vine-stocks,  twigs, 
or  dry  grass,  and  even  on  such  things  as  bits  of  brick, 
strips  of  linen,  or  the  shrivelled  leather  of  an  old  boot. 
Any  support  will  serve,  as  long  as  there  is  an  uneven 
surface  to  form  a  solid  foundation. 

In  size  the  nest  is  between  one  and  two  inches  long, 
and  less  than  an  inch  wide;  and  its  colour  is  as  golden 
as  a  grain  of  wheat.  It  is  made  of  a  frothy  substance, 
which  has  become  solid  and  hard,  and  it  smells  like  silk 

[45] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

when  it  is  burnt.  The  shape  of  it  varies  according  to 
the  support  on  which  it  is  based,  but  in  all  cases  the  upper 
surface  is  convex.  One  can  distinguish  three  bands, 
or  zones,  of  which  the  middle  one  is  made  of  little  plates 
or  scales,  arranged  in  pairs  and  over-lapping  like  the 
tiles  of  a  roof.  The  edges  of  these  plates  are  free, 
forming  two  rows  of  slits  or  little  doorways,  through 
which  the  young  Mantis  escapes  at  the  moment  of  hatch- 
ing. In  every  other  part  the  wall  of  the  nest  is  impene- 
trable. 

The  eggs  are  arranged  in  layers,  with  the  ends  con- 
taining the  heads  pointed  towards  the  doorways.  Of 
these  doorways,  as  I  have  just  said,  there  are  two  rows. 
One  half  of  the  grubs  will  go  out  through  the  right  door, 
and  the  other  half  through  the  left. 

It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  the  mother  Mantis  builds 
this  cleverly-made  nest  while  she  is  actually  laying  her 
eggs.  From  her  body  she  produces  a  sticky  substance, 
rather  like  the  Caterpillar's  silk-fluid;  and  this  material 
she  mixes  with  the  air  and  whips  into  froth.  She  beats 
it  into  foam  with  two  ladles  that  she  has  at  the  tip  of  her 
body,  just  as  we  beat  white  of  egg  with  a  fork.  The 
foam  is  greyish-white,  almost  like  soapsuds,  and  when 
it  first  appears  it  is  sticky;  but  two  minutes  afterwards 
it  has  solidified. 

In  this  sea  of  foam  the  Mantis  deposits  her  eggs.     As 

[46] 


THE  PRAYING  MANTIS 

each  layer  of  eggs  is  laid,  it  is  covered  with  froth,  which 
quickly  becomes  solid. 

In  a  new  nest  the  belt  of  exit-doors  is  coated  with 
a  material  that  seems  different  from  the  rest — a  layer 
of  fine  porous  matter,  of  a  pure,  dull,  almost  chalky 
white,  which  contrasts  with  the  dirty  white  of  the  remain- 
der of  the  nest.  It  is  like  the  mixture  that  confectioners 
make  of  whipped  white  of  egg,  sugar,  and  starch,  with 
which  to  ornament  their  cakes.  This  snowy  covering 
is  very  easily  crumbled  and  removed.  When  it  is  gone 
the  exit-belt  is  clearly  visible,  with  its  two  rows  of 
plates.  The  wind  and  rain  sooner  or  later  remove  it  in 
strips  or  flakes,  and  therefore  the  old  nests  show  no  traces 
of  it. 

But  these  two  materials,  though  they  appear  different, 
are  really  only  two  forms  of  the  same  matter.  The 
Mantis  with  her  ladles  sweeps  the  surface  of  the  foam, 
skimming  the  top  of  the  froth,  and  collecting  it  into  a 
band  along  the  back  of  the  nest.  The  ribbon  that  looks 
like  sugar-icing  is  merely  the  thinnest  and  lightest  por- 
tion of  the  sticky  spray,  which  appears  whiter  than  the 
nest  because  its  bubbles  are  more  delicate,  and  reflect 
more  light. 

It  is  truly  a  wonderful  piece  of  machinery  that  can, 
so  methodically  and  swiftly,  produce  the  horny  central 
substance  on  which  the  first  eggs  are  laid,  the  eggs  them- 

[47] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

selves,  the  protecting  froth,  the  soft  sugar-like  covering 
of  the  doorways,  and  at  the  same  time  can  build  over- 
lapping plates,  and  the  narrow  passages  leading  t?o  them ! 
Yet  the  Mantis,  while  she  is  doing  all  this,  hangs  mo- 
tionless on  the  foundation  of  the  nest.  She  gives  not 
a  glance  at  the  building  that  is  rising  behind  her.  Her 
legs  act  no  part  in  the  affair.  The  machinery  works  by 
itself. 

As  soon  as  she  has  done  her  work  the  mother  with- 
draws. I  expected  to  see  her  return  and  show  some 
tender  feeling  for  the  cradle  of  her  familv,  but  it 
evidently  has  no  further  interest  for  her. 

The  Mantis,  I  fear,  has  no  heart.  She  eats  her  hus- 
band, and  deserts  her  children. 


in 


THE  HATCHING  OF  HER  EGGS 

The  eggs  of  the  Mantis  usually  hatch  in  bright  sun- 
shine, at  about  ten  o'clock  on  a  mid-June  morning. 

As  I  have  already  told  you,  there  is  only  one  part  of 
the  nest  from  which  the  grub  can  find  an  outlet,  namely 
the  band  of  scales  round  the  middle.  From  under  each 
of  these  scales  one  sees  slowly  appearing  a  blunt,  trans- 
parent lump,  followed  by  two  large  black  specks,  which 
are  the  creature's  eyes.  The  baby  grub  slips  gently 

[48] 


THE  PRAYING  MANTIS 

under  the  thin  plate  and  half  releases  itself.  It  is 
reddish  yellow,  and  has  a  thick,  swollen  head.  Under 
its  outer  skin  it  is  quite  easy  to  distinguish  the  large 
black  eyes,  the  mouth  flattened  against  the  chest,  the 
legs  plastered  to  the  body  from  front  to  back.  With 
the  exception  of  these  legs  the  whole  thing  reminds  one 
somewhat  of  the  first  state  of  the  Cicada  on  leaving  the 

egg- 

Like  the  Cicada,  the  young  Mantis  finds  it  necessary 
to  wear  an  overall  when  it  is  coming  into  the  world, 
for  the  sake  of  convenience  and  safety.  It  has  to  emerge 
from  the  depths  of  the  nest  through  narrow,  winding 
ways,  in  which  full-spread  slender  limbs  could  not  find 
enough  room.  The  tall  stilts,  the  murderous  harpoons, 
the  delicate  antennae,  would  hinder  its  passage,  and 
indeed  make  it  impossible.  The  creature  therefore 
appears  in  swaddling-clothes,  and  has  the  shape  of  a 
boat. 

When  the  grub  peeps  out  under  the  thin  scales  of  its 
nest  its  head  becomes  bigger  and  bigger,  till  it  looks  like 
a  throbbing  blister.  The  little  creature  alternately 
pushes  forward  and  draws  back,  in  its  efforts  to  free  it- 
self, and  at  each  movement  the  head  grows  larger.  At 
last  the  outer  skin  bursts  at  the  upper  part  of  the  chest, 
and  the  grub  wriggles  and  tugs  and  bends  about,  deter- 
mined to  throw  off  its  overall.  Finallv  the  legs  and  the 

[49] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

long  antennae  are  freed,  and  a  few  shakes  complete  the 
operation. 

It  is  a  striking  sight  to  see  a  hundred  young  Mantes 
coming  from  the  nest  at  once.  Hardly  does  one  tiny 
creature  show  its  black  eyes  under  a  scale  before  a  swarm 
of  others  appears.  It  is  as  though  a  signal  passed  from 
one  to  the  other,  so  swiftly  does  the  hatching  spread. 
Almost  in  a  moment  the  middle  zone  of  the  nest  is 
covered  with  grubs,  who  run  about  feverishly,  stripping 
themselves  of  their  torn  garments.  Then  they  drop  off, 
or  clamber  into  the  nearest  foliage.  A  few  days  later 
a  fresh  swarm  appears,  and  so  on  till  all  the  eggs  are 
hatched. 

But  alas!  the  poor  grubs  are  hatched  into  a  world 
of  dangers.  I  have  seen  them  hatching  many  times,  both 
out  of  doors  in  my  enclosure,  and  in  the  seclusion  of  a 
greenhouse,  where  I  hoped  I  should  be  better  able  to 
protect  them.  Twenty  times  at  least  I  have  watched 
the  scene,  and  every  time  the  slaughter  of  the  grubs 
has  been  terrible.  The  Mantis  lays  many  eggs, 
but  she  will  never  lay  enough  to  cope  with  the  hungry 
murderers  who  lie  in  wait  until  the  grubs  appear. 

The  Ants,  above  all,  are  their  enemies.  Every  day 
I  find  them  visiting  my  nests.  It  is  in  vain  for  me  to 
interfere;  they  always  get  the  better  of  me.  They 
seldom  succeed  in  entering  the  nest;  its  hard  walls  form 

[50] 


THE  PRAYING  MANTIS 

too  strong  a  fortress.  But  they  wait  outside  for  their 
prey. 

The  moment  that  the  young  grubs  appear  they  are 
grabed  by  the  Ants,  pulled  out  of  their  sheaths,  and  cut 
in  pieces.  You  see  piteous  struggles  between  the  little 
creatures  who  can  only  protest  with  wild  wrigglings  and 
the  ferocious  brigands  who  are  carrying  them  off.  In 
a  moment  the  massacre  is  over;  all  that  is  left  of  the 
flourishing  family  is  a  few  scattered  survivors  who  have 
escaped  by  accident. 

It  is  curious  that  the  Mantis,  the  scourge  of  the  insect 
race,  should  be  herself  so  often  devoured  at  this  early 
stage  of  her  life,  by  one  of  the  least  of  that  race,  the 
Ant.  The  ogress  sees  her  family  eaten  by  the  dwarf. 
But  this  does  not  continue  long.  So  soon  as  she  has 
become  firm  and  strong  from  contact  with  the  air  the 
Mantis  can  hold  her  own.  She  trots  about  briskly  among 
the  Ants,  who  fall  back  as  she  passes,  no  longer  daring  to 
tackle  her :  with  her  fore-legs  brought  close  to  her  chest, 
like  arms  ready  for  self-defence,  she  already  strikes  awe 
into  them  by  her  proud  bearing. 

But  the  Mantis  has  another  enemy  who  is  less  easily 
dismayed.  The  little  Grey  Lizard,  the  lover  of  sunny 
walls,  pays  small  heed  to  threatening  attitudes.  With 
the  tip  of  his  slender  tongue  he  picks  up,  one  by  one, 
the  few  stra^  insects  that  have  escaped  the  Ant.  They 

[51] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

make  but  a  small  mouthful,  but  to  judge  from  the 
Lizard's  expression  they  taste  very  good.  Every  time 
he  gulps  down  one  of  the  little  creatures  he  half-closes 
his  eyelids,  a  sign  of  profound  satisfaction. 

'Moreover,  even  before  the  hatching  the  eggs  are  in 
danger.  There  is  a  tiny  insect  called  the  Chalcis,  who 
carries  a  probe  sharp  enough  to  penetrate  the  nest  of 
solidified  foam.  So  the  brood  of  the  Mantis  shares  the 
fate  of  the  Cicada's.  The  eggs  of  a  stranger  are  laid 
in  the  nest,  and  are  hatched  before  those  of  the  rightful 
owner.  The  owner's  eggs  are  then  eaten  by  the  in- 
vaders. The  Mantis  lays,  perhaps,  a  thousand  eggs. 
Possibly  only  one  couple  of  these  escapes  destruction. 

The  Mantis  eats  the  Locust :  the  Ant  eats  the  Mantis : 
the  Wryneck  eats  the  Ant.  And  in  the  autumn,  when 
the  Wryneck  has  grown  fat  from  eating  many  Ants,  I 
eat  the  Wryneck. 

It  may  well  be  that  the  Mantis,  the  Locust,  the  Ant, 
and  even  lesser  creatures  contribute  to  the  strength  of  the 
human  brain.  In  strange  and  unseen  ways  they  have 
all  supplied  a  drop  of  oil  to  feed  the  lamp  of  thought. 
Their  energies,  slowly  developed,  stored  up,  and  handed 
on  to  us,  pass  into  our  veins  and  sustain  our  weakness. 
We  live  by  their  death.  The  world  is  an  endless  circle. 
Everything  finishes  so  that  everything  may  begin  again ; 
everything  dies  so  that  everything  may  live. 


THE  PRAYING  MANTIS 

In  many  ages  the  Mantis  has  been  regarded  with  super- 
stitious awe.  In  Provence  its  nest  is  held  to  be  the  best 
remedy  for  chilblains.  You  cut  the  thing  in  two,  squeeze 
it,  and  rub  the  afflicted  part  with  the  juice  that  streams 
out  of  it.  The  peasants  declare  that  it  works  like  a 
charm.  I  have  never  felt  any  relief  from  it  myself. 

Further,  it  is  highly  praised  as  a  wonderful  cure  for 
toothache.  As  long  as  you  have  it  on  you,  you  need 
never  fear  that  trouble.  Our  housewives  gather  it  under 
a  favourable  moon ;  they  keep  it  carefully  in  the  corner  of 
a  cupboard,  or  sew  it  into  their  pocket.  The  neighbours 
borrow  it  when  tortured  by  a  tooth.  They  call  it  a  tigno. 

"Lend  me  your  tigno;  I  am  in  agony,"  says  the  sufferer 
with  the  swollen  face. 

The  other  hastens  to  unstitch  and  hand  over  the 
precious  thing. 

"Don't  lose  it,  whatever  you  do,"  she  says  earnestly 
to  her  friend.  "It's  the  only  one  I  have,  and  this  isn't 
the  right  time  of  moon." 

This  simplicity  of  our  peasants  is  surpassed  by  an 
English  physician  and  man  of  science  who  lived  in  the 
sixteenth  century.  He  tells  us  that,  in  those  days,  if  a 
child  lost  his  way  in  the  country,  he  would  ask  the 
Mantis  to  put  him  on  his  road.  "The  Mantis,"  adds 
the  author,  "will  stretch  out  one  of  her  feet  and  shew 
him  the  right  way  and  seldome  or  never  misse." 

[53] 


CHAPTER  V 


THE  GLOW-WORM 


HIS  SURGICAL  INSTRUMENT 

FEW  insects  enjoy  more  fame  than  the  Glow- 
worm, the  curious  little  animal  who  celebrates 
the  joy  of  life  by  lighting  a  lantern  at  its  tail- 
end.     We  all  know  it,  at  least  by  name,  even  if  we  have 
not  seen  it  roaming  through  the  grass,  like  a  spark  fallen 
from  the  full  moon.     The  Greeks  of  old  called  it  the 
Bright-tailed,  and  modern  science  gives  it  the  name 
Lampyris. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  Lampyris  is  not  a  worm  at  all, 
not  even  in  general  appearance.  He  has  six  short  legs, 
which  he  well  knows  how  to  use,  for  he  is  a  real  gad- 
about. The  male,  when  he  is  full-grown  has  wing- 
cases,  like  the  true  Beetle  that  he  is.  The  female  is  an 
unattractive  creature  who  knows  nothing  of  the  delights 
of  flying  and  all  her  life  remains  in  the  larva,  or  in- 
complete form.  Even  at  this  stage  the  word  "worm" 
is  out  of  place.  We  French  use  the  phrase  "naked  as 

[54] 


THE  GLOW-WORM 

a  worm"  to  express  the  lack  of  any  kind  of  protection. 
Now  the  Lampyris  is  clothed,  that  is  to  say  he  wears  an 
outer  skin  that  serves  as  a  defence;  and  he  is,  moreover, 
rather  richly  coloured.  He  is  dark  brown,  with  pale 
pink  on  the  chest;  and  each  segment,  or  division,  of  his 
body  is  ornamented  at  the  edge  with  two  spots  of  fairly 
bright  red.  A  costume  like  this  was  never  worn  by  a 
worm! 

Nevertheless  we  will  continue  to  call  him  the  Glow- 
worm, since  it  is  bv  that  name  that  he  is  best  known  to 
the  world. 

The  two  most  interesting  peculiarities  about  the 
Glow-worm  are,  first,  the  way  he  secures  his  food,  and 
secondly,  the  lantern  at  his  tail. 

A  famous  Frenchman,  a  master  of  the  science  of  food, 
once  said  : 

"Show  me  what  you  eat,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  you 
are." 

A  similar  question  should  be  addressed  to  every  insect 
whose  habits  we  propose  to  study;  for  the  information 
supplied  by  food  is  the  chief  of  all  the  documents  of 
animal  life.  Well,  in  spite  of  his  innocent  appearance, 
the  Glow-worm  is  an  eater  of  flesh,  a  hunter  of  game; 
and  he  carries  on  his  hunting  with  rare  villainy.  His 
regular  prey  is  the  Snail.  This  fact  has  long  been 
known;  but  what  is  not  so  well  known  is  his  curious 

[55] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

method  of  attack,  of  which  I  have  seen  no  other  example 
anywhere. 

Before  he  begins  to  feed  on  his  victim  he  gives  it  an 
anaesthetic — he  makes  it  unconscious,  as  a  person  is 
made  unconscious  with  chloroform  before  a  surgical 
operation.  His  food,  as  a  rule,  is  a  certain  small  Snail 
hardly  the  size  of  a  cherry,  which  collects  in  clusters 
during  the  hot  weather,  on  the  stiff  stubble  and  other 
dry  stalks  by  the  roadside,  and  there  remains  motion- 
less, in  profound  meditation,  throughout  the  scorching 
summer  days.  In  some  such  place  as  this  I  have  often 
seen  the  Glow-worm  feasting  on  his  unconscious  prey, 
which  he  had  just  paralysed  on  its  shaky  support. 

But  he  frequents  other  places  too.  At  the  edge  of 
cool,  damp  ditches,  where  the  vegetation  is  varied, 
many  Snails  are  to  be  found ;  and  in  such  spots  as  these 
the  Glow-worm  can  kill  his  victim  on  the  ground.  I 
can  reproduce  these  conditions  at  home,  and  can  there 
follow  the  operator's  performance  down  to  the  smallest 
detail. 

I  will  try  to  describe  the  strange  sight.  I  place  a 
little  grass  in  a  wide  glass  jar.  In  this  I  install  a  few 
Glow-worms  and  a  supply  of  Snails  of  a  suitable  size, 
neither  too  large  nor  too  small.  One  must  be  patient 
and  wait,  and  above  all  keep  a  careful  watch,  for  the 
events  take  place  unexpectedly  and  do  not  last  long. 

[56] 


THE  GLOW-WORM 

For  a  moment  the  Glow-worm  examines  his  prey, 
which,  according  to  its  habit,  is  completely  hidden  in  the 
shell,  except  for  the  edge  of  the  "mantle,"  which 
projects  slightly.  Then  the  hunter  draws  his  weapon. 
It  is  a  very  simple  weapon,  but  it  cannot  be  seen  without 
a  magnifying-glass.  It  consists  of  two  mandibles,  bent 
back  into  a  hook,  very  sharp  and  as  thin  as  a  hair. 
Through  the  microscope  one  can  see  a  slender  groove 
running  down  the  hook.  And  that  is  all. 

The  insect  repeatedly  taps  the  Snail's  mantle  with  its 
instrument.  It  all  happens  with  such  gentleness  as  to 
suggest  kisses  rather  than  bites.  As  children,  teasing 
one  another,  we  used  to  talk  of  "tweaks"  to  express  a 
slight  squeeze  of  the  finger-tips,  something  more  like 
tickling  than  a  serious  pinch.  Let  us  use  that  word. 
In  conversation  with  animals,  language  loses  nothing  by 
remaining  simple.  The  Glow-worm  gives  tweaks  to 
the  Snail. 

He  doles  them  out  methodically,  without  hurrying, 
and  takes  a  brief  rest  after  each  of  them,  as  though  to 
find  out  what  effect  has  been  produced.  The  number 
of  tweaks  is  not  great :  half  a  dozen  at  most,  which  are 
enough  to  make  the  Snail  motionless,  and  to  rob  him  of  all 
feeling.  That  other  pinches  are  administered  later,  at 
the  time  of  eating,  seems  very  likely,  but  I  cannot  say 
anything  for  certain  on  that  subject.  The  first  few, 

[57] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

however — there  are  never  many — are  enough  to  prevent 
the  Snail  from  feeling  anything,  thanks  to  the  prompti- 
tude of  the  Glow-worm,  who,  at  lightning  speed,  darts 
some  kind  of  poison  into  his  victim  by  means  of  his 
grooved  hooks. 

There  is  no  doubt  at  all  that  the  Snail  is  made  in- 
sensible to  pain.  If,  when  the  Glow-worm  has  dealt 
some  four  or  five  of  his  twitches,  I  take  away  the  victim 
and  prick  it  with  a  fine  needle,  there  is  not  a  quiver  in 
the  wounded  flesh,  there  is  not  the  smallest  sign  of  life. 
Moreover,  I  occasionally  chance  to  see  Snails  attacked 
by  the  Lampyris  while  they  are  creeping  along  the 
ground,  the  foot  slowly  crawling,  the  tentacles  swollen  to 
their  full  extent.  A  few  disordered  movements  betray 
a  brief  excitement  on  the  part  of  the  Snail,  and  then 
everything  ceases :  the  foot  no  longer  crawls,  the  front- 
part  loses  its  graceful  curve,  the  tentacles  become  limp 
and  give  way  under  their  own  weight,  dangling  feebly 
like  a  broken  stick.  The  Snail,  to  all  appearance,  is 
dead. 

He  is  not,  however,  really  dead.  I  can  bring  him  to 
life  again.  When  he  has  been  for  two  or  three  days  in 
a  condition  that  is  neither  life  nor  death  I  give  him  a 
shower-bath.  In  about  a  couple  of  days  my  prisoner, 
so  lately  injured  by  the  Glow-worm's  treachery,  is  re- 
stored to  his  usual  state.  He  revives,  he  recovers  move- 

[58] 


THE  GLOW-WORM 

ment  and  sensibility.  He  is  affected  by  the  touch  of  a 
needle ;  he  shifts  his  place,  crawls,  puts  out  his  tentacles, 
as  though  nothing  unusual  had  occurred.  The  general 
torpor,  a  sort  of  deep  drunkenness,  has  vanished  out- 
right. The  dead  returns  to  life. 

Human  science  did  not  invent  the  art  of  making  a 
person  insensible  to  pain,  which  is  one  of  the  triumphs 
of  surgery.  Far  back  in  the  centuries  the  Glow-worm, 
and  apparently  others  too,  was  practising  it.  The 
surgeon  makes  us  breathe  the  fumes  of  ether  or  chloro- 
form: the  insect  darts  forth  from  his  fangs  very  tiny 
doses  of  a  special  poison. 

When  we  consider  the  harmless  and  peaceful  nature 
of  the  Snail  it  seems  curious  that  the  Glow-worm  should 
require  this  remarkable  talent.  But  I  think  I  know  the 
reason. 

When  the  Snail  is  on  the  ground,  creeping,  or  even 
shrunk  into  his  shell,  the  attack  never  presents  any 
difficulty.  The  shell  possesses  no  lid  and  leaves  the 
hermit's  fore-part  to  a  great  extent  exposed.  But  it 
very  often  happens  that  he  is  in  a  raised  position,  cling- 
ing to  the  tip  of  a  grass-stalk,  or  perhaps  to  the  smooth 
surface  of  a  stone.  This  support  to  which  he  fastens 
himself  serves  very  well  as  a  protection ;  it  acts  as  a  lid, 
supposing  that  the  shell  fits  closely  on  the  stone  or  stalk. 
But  if  the  least  bit  of  the  Snail  be  left  uncovered  the 

[59] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

slender  hooks  of  the  Glow-worm  can  find  their  way  in 
through  the  gap,  and  in  a  moment  the  victim  is  made  un- 
conscious, and  can  be  eaten  in  comfort. 

Now,  a  Snail  perched  on  top  of  a  stalk  is  very  easily 
upset.  The  slightest  struggle,  the  most  feeble  wriggle 
on  his  part,  would  dislodge  him;  he  would  fall  to  the 
ground,  and  the  Glow-worm  would  be  left  without  food. 
It  is  necessary  for  the  Snail  to  be  made  instantly  un- 
conscious of  pain,  or  he  would  escape;  and  it  must  be 
done  with  a  touch  so  delicate  that  it  does  not  shake  him 
from  his  stalk.  And  that,  I  think,  is  why  the  Glow- 
worm possesses  his  strange  surgical  instrument. 

II 

HIS  ROSETTE 

The  Glow-worm  not  only  makes  his  victim  insensible 
while  he  is  poised  on  the  side  of  a  dry  grass-stalk,  but 
he  eats  him  in  the  same  dangerous  position.  And  his 
preparations  for  his  meal  are  by  no  means  simple. 

What  is  his  manner  of  consuming  it*?  Does  he 
really  eat,  that  is  to  say,  does  he  divide  his  food  into 
pieces,  does  he  carve  it  into  minute  particles,  which  are 
afterwards  ground  by  a  chewing-apparatus^  I  think 
not.  I  never  see  a  trace  of  solid  nourishment  on  my 

[60] 


THE  GLOW-WORM 

captives'  mouths.  The  Glow-worm  does  not  eat  in  the 
strict  sense  of  the  word;  he  merely  drinks.  He  feeds 
on  a  thin  gruel,  into  which  he  transforms  his  prey.  Like 
the  flesh-eating  grub  of  the  Fly,  he  can  digest  his  food 
before  he  swallows  it;  he  turns  his  prey  into  liquid 
before  feeding  on  it. 

This  is  how  things  happen.  A  Snail  has  been  made 
insensible  by  a  Glow-worm,  who  is  nearly  always  alone, 
even  when  the  prize  is  a  large  one  like  the  Common  Snail. 
Soon  a  number  of  guests  hasten  up — two,  three,  or  more 
— and,  without  any  quarrel  with  the  real  owner,  all  alike 
fall  to.  A  couple  of  days  later,  if  I  turn  the  shell  so 
that  the  opening  is  downwards,  the  contents  flow  out  like 
soup  from  a  saucepan.  By  the  time  the  meal  is  finished 
only  insignificant  remains  are  left. 

The  matter  is  obvious.  By  repeated  tiny  bites,  similar 
to  the  tweaks  which  we  saw  administered  at  the  begin- 
ning, the  flesh  of  the  Snail  is  converted  into  a  gruel  on 
which  the  various  guests  nourish  themselves  each  in  his 
own  way,  each  working  at  the  broth  by  means  of  some 
special  pepsine  (or  digestive  fluid) ,  and  each  taking  his 
own  mouthf uls  of  it.  The  use  of  this  method  shows  that 
the  Glow-worm's  mouth  must  be  very  feebly  armed,  apart 
from  the  two  fangs  which  sting  the  patient  and  inject 
the  poison.  No  doubt  these  fangs  at  the  same  time  in- 

[61] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

ject  some  other  substance  which  turns  the  solid  flesh  into 
liquid,  in  such  a  thorough  way  that  every  morsel  is  turned 
to  account. 

And  this  is  done  with  exquisite  delicacy,  though  some- 
times in  a  position  that  is  anything  but  steady.  The 
Snails  imprisoned  in  my  apparatus  sometimes  crawl  up 
to  the  top,  which  is  closed  with  a  glass  pane.  To  this 
pane  they  fix  themseves  with  a  speck  of  the  sticky  sub- 
stance they  carry  with  them;  but,  as  they  are  miserly  in 
their  use  of  this  substance,  the  merest  shake  is  enough 
to  loosen  the  shell  and  send  it  to  the  bottom  of  the  jar. 

Now  it  is  not  unusual  for  the  Glow-worm  to  hoist 
himself  to  the  top,  with  the  help  of  a  certain  climbing- 
organ  that  makes  up  for  the  weakness  of  his  legs.  He 
selects  his  prey,  makes  a  careful  inspection  of  it  to  find 
a  slit,  nibbles  it  a  little,  makes  it  insensible,  and  then, 
without  delay,  proceeds  to  prepare  the  gruel  which  he  will 
go  on  eating  for  days  on  end. 

When  he  has  finished  his  meal  the  shell  is  found  to 
be  absolutely  empty.  And  yet  this  shell,  which  was 
fixed  to  the  glass  only  by  the  slight  smear  of  stickiness, 
has  not  come  loose,  nor  even  shifted  its  position  in  the 
smallest  degree.  Without  any  protest  from  the  hermit 
who  has  been  gradually  converted  into  broth,  it  has  been 
drained  dry  on  the  very  spot  at  which  the  first  attack  was 
made.  These  small  details  show  us  how  promptly  the 

[62] 


THE  GLOW-WORM 

anaesthetic  bite  takes  effect,  and  how  very  skilfully  the 
Glow-worm  treats  his  Snail. 

To  do  all  this,  poised  high  in  air  on  a  sheet  of  glass 
or  a  grass-stem,  the  Glow-worm  must  have  some  special 
limb  or  organ  to  keep  him  from  slipping.  It  is  plain 
that  his  short  clumsy  legs  are  not  enough. 

Through  the  magnifying-glass  we  can  see  that  he  does 
indeed  possess  a  special  organ  of  this  kind.  Beneath 
his  body,  towards  the  tail,  there  is  a  white  spot.  The 
glass  shows  that  this  is  composed  of  about  a  dozen  short, 
fleshy  little  tubes,  or  stumpy  fingers,  which  are  some- 
times gathered  into  a  cluster,  sometimes  spread  into  a 
rosette.  This  bunch  of  little  fingers  helps  the  Glow- 
worm to  stick  to  a  smooth  surface,  and  also  to  climb. 
If  he  wishes  to  fix  himself  to  a  pane  of  glass  or  a  stalk 
he  opens  his  rosette,  and  spreads  it  wide  on  the  support, 
to  which  it  clings  by  its  own  natural  stickiness.  And 
by  opening  and  shutting  alternately  it  helps  him  to  creep 
along  and  to  climb. 

The  little  fingers  that  form  this  rosette  are  not  jointed, 
but  are  able  to  move  in  all  directions.  Indeed  they  are 
more  like  tubes  than  fingers,  for  they  cannot  seize  any- 
thing, they  can  only  hold  on  by  their  stickiness.  They 
are  very  useful,  however,  for  they  have  a  third  purpose, 
be'sides  their  powers  of  clinging  and  climbing.  They 
are  used  as  a  sponge  and  brush.  At  a  moment  of  rest, 

[63] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

after  a  meal,  the  Glow-worm  passes  and  repasses  this 
brush  over  his  head  and  sides  and  his  whole  body,  a  per- 
formance made  possible  by  the  flexibility  of  his  spine. 
This  is  done  point  by  point,  from  one  end  of  the  body 
to  the  other,  with  a  scrupulous  care  that  proves  the  great 
interest  he  takes  in  the  operation.  At  first  one  may 
wonder  why  he  should  dust  and  polish  himself  so  care- 
fully. But  no  doubt,  by  the  time  he  has  turned  the  Snail 
into  gruel  inside  the  shell  and  has  then  spent  several 
days  in  eating  the  result  of  his  labours,  a  wash  and  brush- 
up  is  not  amiss. 

Ill 

HIS  LAMP 

If  the  Glow-worm  possessed  no  other  talent  than  that 
of  chloroforming  his  prey  by  means  of  a  few  tweaks  as 
gentle  as  kisses,  he  would  be  unknown  to  the  world  in 
general.  But  he  also  knows  how  to  light  himself  like 
a  lantern.  He  shines ;  which  is  an  excellent  manner  of 
becoming  famous. 

In  the  case  of  the  female  Glow-worm  the  lighting- 
apparatus  occupies  the  last  three  divisions  of  the  body. 
On  each  of  the  first  two  it  takes  the  form,  on  the  under 
surface,  of  a  wide  belt  of  light;  on  the  third  division 
or  segment  the  bright  part  is  much  smaller,  and  consists 

[64] 


THE  GLOW-WORM 

only  of  two  spots,  which  shine  through  the  back,  and  are 
visible  both  above  and  below  the  animal.  From  these 
belts  and  spots  there  comes  a  glorious  white  light,  deli- 
cately tinged  with  blue. 

The  male  Glow-worm  carries  only  the  smaller  of  these 
lamps,  the  two  spots  on  the  end  segment,  which  are 
possessed  by  the  entire  tribe.  These  luminous  spots 
appear  upon  the  young  grub,  and  continue  throughout 
life  unchanged.  And  they  are  always  visible  both  on 
the  upper  and  lower  surface,  whereas  the  two  large  belts 
peculiar  to  the  female  shine  only  below  the  body. 

I  have  examined  the  shining  belt  under  the  micro- 
scope. On  the  skin  a  sort  of  whitewash  is  spread,  formed 
of  some  very  fine  grain-like  substance,  which  is  the  source 
of  the  light.  Close  beside  it  is  a  curious  air-tube,  with 
a  short  wide  stem  leading  to  a  kind  of  bushy  tuft  of 
delicate  branches.  These  branches  spread  over  the  sheet 
of  shining  matter,  and  sometimes  dip  into  it. 

It  is  plain  to  me  that  the  brightness  is  produced  by 
the  breathing-organs  of  the  Glow-worm.  There  are 
certain  substances  which,  when  mixed  with  air,  become 
luminous  or  even  burst  into  flame.  Such  substances  are 
called  combustible,  and  the  act  of  their  producing  light 
or  flame  by  mingling  with  the  air  is  called  oxidisation. 
The  lamp  of  the  Glow-worm  is  the  result  of  oxidisation. 
The  substance  that  looks  like  whitewash  is  the  matter 

[65] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

that  is  oxidised,  and  the  air  is  supplied  by  the  tube  con- 
nected with  the  Glow-worm's  breathing-organs.  But 
as  to  the  nature  of  the  shining  substance,  no  one  as  yet 
knows  anything. 

We  are  better  informed  as  regards  another  question. 
LWe  know  that  the  Glow-worm  has  complete  control  of 
the  light  he  carries.  He  can  turn  it  up  or  down,  or 
out,  as  he  pleases. 

If  the  flow  of  air  through  the  tube  be  increased,  the 
light  becomes  more  intense:  if  the  same  air-tube,  in- 
fluenced by  the  will  of  the  animal,  stops  the  passage  of' 
air,  the  light  grows  fainter  or  even  goes  out. 

Excitement  produces  an  effect  upon  the  air-tube.  I 
am  speaking  now  of  the  modest  fairy-lamp,  the  spots 
on  the  last  segment  of  the  Glow-worm's  body.  These 
are  suddenly  and  almost  completely  put  out  by  any  kind 
of  flurry.  When  I  am  hunting  for  young  Glow-worms 
I  can  plainly  see  them  glimmering  on  the  blades  of  grass ; 
but  should  the  least  false  step  disturb  a  neighbouring 
twig,  the  light  goes  out  at  once  and  the  insect  becomes 
invisible. 

The  gorgeous  belts  of  the  females,  however,  are  very 
little,  if  at  all,  affected  by  even  the  most  violent  sur- 
prise. I  fire  a  gun,  for  instance,  beside  a  wire-gauze 
cage  in  which  I  am  rearing  a  menagerie  of  female  Glow- 
worms in  the  open  air.  The  explosion  produces  no 

[66] 


THE  GLOW-WORM 

result:  the  illumination  continues,  as  bright  and  placid 
as  before.  I  take  a  spray,  and  rain  down  a  slight  shower 
of  cold  water  upon  the  flock.  Not  one  of  my  animals 
puts  out  its  light;  at  the  very  most  there  is  a  brief  pause 
in  the  radiance,  and  then  only  in  some  cases.  I  send 
a  puff  of  smoke  from  my  pipe  into  the  cage.  This  time 
the  pause  is  more  marked.  There  are  even  some  lamps 
put  out,  but  they  are  soon  relit.  Calm  returns,  and  the 
light  is  as  bright  as  ever.  I  take  some  of  the  captives 
in  my  fingers  and  tease  them  a  little.  Yet  the  illumina- 
tion is  not  much  dimmed,  if  I  do  not  press  too  hard  with 
my  thumb.  Nothing  short  of  very  serious  reasons  would 
make  the  insect  put  out  its  signals  altogether. 

All  things  considered,  there  is  not  a  doubt  but  that 
the  Glow-worm  himself  manages  his  lighting-apparatus, 
extinguishing  and  rekindling  it  at  will ;  but  there  is  one 
circumstance  over  which  the  insect  has  no  control.  If 
I  cut  off  a  strip  of  the  skin,  showing  one  of  the  luminous 
belts,  and  place  it  in  a  glass  tube,  it  will  shine  away 
merrily,  though  not  quite  as  brilliantly  as  on  the  living 
body.  The  presence  of  life  is  unnecessary,  because  the 
luminous  skin  is  in  direct  contact  with  the  air,  and  the 
flow  of  oxygen  through  the  air-tube  is  therefore  not  re- 
quired. In  aerated  water  the  skin  shines  as  brightly  as 
in  the  free  air,  but  the  light  is  extinguished  in  water  that 
has  been  deprived  of  its  air  by  boiling.  There  could  be 

[67] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

no  better  proof  that  the  Glow-worm's  light  is  the  effect 
of  oxidisation. 

The  light  is  white,  calm,  and  soft  to  the  eyes,  and 
suggests  a  spark  dropped  by  the  full  moon.  In  spite  of 
its  splendour  it  is  very  feeble.  If  we  move  a  Glow- 
worm along  a  line  of  print,  in  perfect  darkness,  we  can 
easily  make  out  the  letters  one  by  one,  and  even  words 
when  they  are  not  too  long;  but  nothing  is  visible  beyond 
this  very  narrow  zone.  A  lantern  of  this  kind  soon 
tires  the  reader's  patience. 

These  brilliant  creatures  know  nothing  at  all  of  family 
affection.  They  lay  their  eggs  anywhere,  or  rather  strew 
them  at  random,  either  on  the  earth  or  on  a  blade  of  grass. 
Then  they  pay  no  further  attention  to  them. 

From  start  to  finish  the  Glow-worm  shines.  Even 
the  eggs  are  luminous,  and  so  are  the  grubs.  At  the 
approach  of  cold  weather  the  latter  go  down  into  the 
ground,  but  not  very  far.  If  I  dig  them  up  I  find  them 
with  their  little  stern-lights  still  shining.  Even  below 
the  soil  they  keep  their  lanterns  bravely  alight. 


[68] 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  MASON-WASP 

I 
HER  CHOICE  OF  A  BUILDING-SITE 

OF  the  various  insects  that  like  to  make  their 
home  in  our  houses,  certainly  the  most  inter- 
esting, for  her  beautiful  shape,  her  curious 
manners,  and  her  wonderful  nest,  is  a  certain  Wasp 
called  the  Pelopaeus.  She  is  very  little  known,  even  to 
the  people  by  whose  fireside  she  lives.  This  is  owing 
to  her  quiet,  peaceful  ways;  she  is  so  very  retiring  that 
her  host  is  nearly  always  ignorant  of  her  presence.  It 
is  easy  for  noisy,  tiresome,  unpleasant  persons  to  make 
themselves  famous.  I  will  try  to  rescue  this  modest 
creature  from  her  obscurity. 

The  Pelopaeus  is  an  extremely  chilly  mortal.  She 
pitches  her  tent  under  the  kindly  sun  that  ripens  the 
olive  and  prompts  the  Cicada's  song;  and  even  then  she 
needs  for  her  family  the  additional  warmth  to  be  found 
in  our  dwellings.  Her  usual  refuge  is  the  peasant's 
lonely  cottage,  with  its  old  fig-tree  shading  the  well  in 
front  of  the  door.  She  chooses  one  exposed  to  all  the 

[69] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

heat  of  summers,  and  if  possible  possessing  a  big  fire- 
place in  which  a  fire  of  sticks  always  burns.  The  cheer- 
ful blaze  on  winter  evenings  has  a  great  influence  upon 
her  choice,  for  she  knows  by  the  blackness  of  the  chimney 
that  the  spot  is  a  likely  one.  A  chimney  that  is  not 
well  glazed  by  smoke  gives  her  no  confidence:  people 
must  shiver  wth  cold  in  that  house. 

During  the  dog-days  in  July  and  August  the  visitor 
suddenly  appears,  seeking  a  place  for  her  nest.  She  is 
not  in  the  least  disturbed  by  the  bustle  and  movement 
of  the  household:  they  take  no  notice  of  her  nor  she 
of  them.  She  examines — now  with  her  sharp  eyes,  now 
with  her  sensitive  antennae — the  corners  of  the  blackened 
ceiling,  the  rafters,  the  chimney-piece,  the  sides  of  the 
fireplace  especially,  and  even  the  inside  of  the  flue. 
Having  finished  her  inspection  and  duly  approved  of 
the  site  she  flies  away,  soon  to  return  with  the  pellet  of 
mud  which  will  form  the  first  layer  of  the  building. 

The  spot  she  chooses  varies  greatly,  and  often  it  is  a 
very  curious  one.  The  temperature  of  a  furnace  appears 
to  suit  the  young  Pelopaeus :  at  least  the  favourite  site 
is  the  chimney,  on  either  side  of  the  flue,  up  to  a  height 
of  twenty  inches  or  so.  This  snug  shelter  has  its  draw- 
backs. The  smoke  gets  to  the  nests,  and  gives  them  a 
glaze  of  brown  or  black  like  that  which  covers  the  stone- 
work. They  might  easily  be  taken  for  inequalities  in  the 

[70] 


A  MASON- WASP 

mortar.  This  is  not  a  serious  matter,  provided  that  the 
flames  do  not  lick  against  the  nests.  That  would  stew 
the  young  Wasps  to  death  in  their  clay  pots.  But  the 
mother  Wasps  seems  to  understand  this:  she  only 
places  her  family  in  chimneys  that  are  too  wide  for  any- 
thing but  smoke  to  reach  their  sides. 

But  in  spite  of  all  her  caution  one  danger  remains. 
It  sometimes  happens,  while  the  Wasp  is  building,  that 
the  approach  to  the  half-built  dwelling  is  barred  to  her 
for  a  time,  or  even  for  the  whole  day,  by  a  curtain  of 
steam  or  smoke.  Washing-days  are  most  risky.  From 
morning  till  night  the  housewife  keeps  the  huge  cauldron 
boiling.  The  smoke  from  the  hearth,  the  steam  from 
the  cauldron  and  the  wash-tub,  form  a  dense  mist  in  front 
of  the  fireplace. 

It  is  told  of  the  Water-Ouzel  that,  to  get  back  to  his 
nest,  he  will  fly  through  the  cataract  under  a  mill-weir. 
This  Wasp  is  even  more  daring :  with  her  pellet  of  mud 
in  her  teeth  she  crosses  the  cloud  of  smoke  and  disappears 
behind  it,  where  she  becomes  invisible,  so  thick  is  the 
screen.  An  irregular  chirring  sound,  the  song  she  sings 
at  her  work,  alone  betrays  her  presence.  The  building 
goes  on  mysteriously  behind  the  cloud.  The  song  ceases, 
and  the  Wasp  flies  back  through  the  steam,  quite  un- 
harmed. She  will  face  this  danger  repeatedly  all  day, 
until  the  cell  is  built,  stored  with  food,  and  closed. 

[71] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

Once  and  once  only  I  was  able  to  observe  a  Pelopaeus 
at  my  own  fireside ;  and,  as  it  happened,  it  was  a  washing- 
day.  I  had  not  long  been  appointed  to  the  Avignon 
grammar-school.  It  was  close  upon  two  o'clock,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  the  roll  of  the  drum  would  summon  me 
to  give  a  scientific  lecture  to  an  audience  of  wool-gather- 
ers. Suddenly  I  saw  a  strange,  agile  insect  dart  through 
the  steam  that  rose  from  the  wash-tub.  The  front  part  of 
its  body  was  very  thin,  and  the  back  part  was  very  plump, 
and  the  two  parts  were  joined  together  by  a  long  thread. 
It  was  the  Pelopaeus,  the  first  I  had  seen  with  observant 
eyes. 

Being  very  anxious  to  become  better  acquainted  with 
my  visitor,  I  fervently  entreated  the  household  not  to 
disturb  her  in  my  absence.  Things  went  better  than  I 
dared  hope.  On  my  return  she  was  still  carrying  on  her 
mason's  work  behind  the  steam.  Being  eager  to  see  the 
building  of  the  cells,  the  nature  of  the  provisions,  and 
the  evolution  of  the  young  Wasps,  I  raked  the  fire  so  as 
to  decrease  the  volume  of  smoke,  and  for  a  good  two  hours 
I  watched  the  mother  Wasp  diving  through  the  cloud. 

Never  again,  in  the  forty  years  that  followed,  was  my 
fireplace  honoured  with  such  a  visit.  All  the  further 
information  I  have  gathered  was  gleaned  on  the  hearths 
of  my  neighbours. 

The  Pelopaeus,  it  appears,  is  of  a  solitary  and  vagrant 

[72] 


A  MASON-WASP 

disposition.  She  nearly  always  builds  a  lonely  nest,  and 
unlike  many  Wasps  and  Bees,  she  seldom  founds  her 
family  at  the  spot  where  she  was  reared  herself.  She  is 
often  found  in  our  southern  towns,  but  on  the  whole  she 
prefers  the  peasant's  smoky  house  to  the  townsman's 
white  villa.  Nowhere  have  I  seen  her  so  plentiful  as  in 
my  village,  with  its  tumble-down  cottages  burnt  yellow 
by  the  sun. 

It  is  obvious  that  this  Wasp,  when  she  so  often  chooses 
the  chimney  as  her  abode,  is  not  seeking  her  own  comfort : 
the  site  means  work,  and  dangerous  work.  She  seeks  the 
welfare  of  her  family.  This  family,  then,  must  require 
a  high  temperature,  such  as  other  Wasps  and  Bees  do  not 
need. 

I  have  seen  a  Pelopaeus  nest  in  the  engine-room  of 
a  silk-factory,  fixed  to  the  ceiling  just  above  the  huge 
boiler.  At  this  spot  the  thermometer  marked  120 
degrees  all  through  the  year,  except  at  night  and  on  holi- 
days. 

In  a  country  distillery  I  have  found  many  nests,  fixed 
on  anything  that  came  to  hand,  even  a  pile  of  account- 
books.  The  temperature  of  one  of  these,  quite  close  to 
the  still,  was  113  degrees.  It  is  plain  that  this 
Wasp  cheerfully  endures  a  degree  of  heat  that  makes  the 
oily  palm-tree  sprout. 

A  boiler  or  a  furnace  she  regards  as  the  ideal  home,  but 

[73] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

she  is  quite  willing  to  content  herself  in  any  snug  corner : 
a  conservatory,  a  kitchen-ceiling,  the  recess  of  a  closed 
window,  the  wall  of  a  cottage  bedroom.  As  to  the 
foundation  on  which  she  fixes  her  nest,  she  is  entirely 
indifferent.  As  a  rule  she  builds  her  groups  of  cells 
on  stonework  or  timber ;  but  at  various  times  I  have  seen 
nests  inside  a  gourd,  in  a  fur  cap,  in  the  hollow  of  a  brick, 
on  the  side  of  a  bag  of  oats,  and  in  a  piece  of  lead  tubing. 

Once  I  saw  something  more  remarkable  still,  in  a  farm 
near  Avignon.  In  a  large  room  with  a  very  wide  fire- 
place the  soup  for  the  farm-hands  and  the  food  for 
the  cattle  simmered  in  a  row  of  pots.  The  labourers  used 
to  come  in  from  the  fields  to  this  room,  and  devour  their 
meal  with  the  silent  haste  that  comes  from  a  keen 
appetite.  To  enjoy  this  half-hour  comfortably  they 
would  take  off  their  hats  and  smocks,  and  hang  them  on 
pegs.  Short  though  this  meal  was,  it  was  long  enough  to 
allow  the  Wasps  to  take  possession  of  their  garments. 
The  inside  of  a  straw  hat  was  recognised  as  a  most  useful 
building-site,  the  folds  of  a  smock  were  looked  upon  as  a 
capital  shelter;  and  the  work  of  building  started  at  once. 
On  rising  from  the  table  one  of  the  men  would  shake  his 
smock,  and  another  his  hat,  to  rid  it  of  the  Wasp's  nest, 
which  was  already  the  size  of  an  acorn. 

The  cook  in  that  farmhouse  regarded  the  Wasps  with 
no  friendly  eye.  They  dirtied  everything,  she  said. 

[74] 


A  MASON-WASP 

Dabs  of  mud  on  the  ceiling,  on  the  walls,  or  on  the 
chimney-piece  you  could  put  up  with;  but  it  was  a  very 
different  matter  when  you  found  them  on  the  linen  and 
the  curtains.  She  had  to  beat  the  curtains  every  day 
with  a  bamboo.  And  it  was  trouble  thrown  away.  The 
next  morning  the  Wasps  began  building  as  busily  as  ever. 

II 

HER  BUILDING 

I  sympathised  with  the  sorrows  of  that  farm-cook,  but 
greatly  regretted  that  I  could  not  take  her  place.  How 
gladly  I  would  have  left  the  Wasps  undisturbed,  even  if 
they  had  covered  all  the  furniture  with  mud!  How  I 
longed  to  know  what  the  fate  of  a  nest  would  be,  if 
perched  on  the  uncertain  support  of  a  coat  or  a  curtain ! 
The  nest  of  the  Mason-bee  is  made  of  hard  mortar,  which 
surrounds  the  twig  on  which  it  is  built,  and  becomes 
firmly  fixed  to  it;  but  the  nest  of  the  Pelopaeus  Wasp  is  a 
mere  blob  of  mud,  without  cement  or  foundations. 

The  materials  of  which  it  is  made  are  nothing  but  wet 
earth  or  dirt,  picked  up  wherever  the  soil  is  damp 
enough.  The  thin  clay  of  a  river-bank  is  very  suitable, 
but  in  my  stony  country  streams  are  rare.  I  can,  how- 
ever, watch  the  builders  at  my  leisure  in  my  own  garden, 
when  a  thin  trickle  of  water  runs  all  day,  as  it  does  some- 

[75] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

times,  through  the  little  trenches  that  are  cut  in  my 
vegetable  plots. 

The  Pelopaeus  Wasps  of  the  neighbourhood  soon  be- 
come aware  of  this  glad  event,  and  come  hurrying  up  to 
take  advantage  of  the  precious  layer  of  mud,  a  rare  dis- 
covery in  the  dry  season.  They  scrape  and  skim  the 
gleaming,  shiny  surface  with  their  mandibles  while 
standing  high  on  their  legs,  with  their  wings  quivering 
and  their  black  bodies  upraised.  No  neat  little  house- 
wife, with  skirts  carefully  tucked  up  out  of  the  dirt, 
could  be  more  skilful  in  tackling  a  job  likely  to  soil  her 
clothes.  These  mud-gatherers  have  not  an  atom  of  dirt 
upon  them,  so  careful  are  they  to  tuck  up  their  skirts  in 
their  own  fashion,  that  is  to  say,  to  keep  their  whole 
body  out  of  the  way,  all  but  the  tips  of  their  legs  and  the 
busy  points  of  the  mandibles  with  which  they  work. 

In  this  way  a  dab  of  mud  is  collected,  almost  the  size 
of  a  pea.  Taking  the  load  in  its  teeth  the  insect  flies  off, 
adds  a  layer  to  its  building,  and  soon  returns  to  collect 
another  pellet.  The  same  method  is  pursued  as  long  as 
the  earth  remains  sufficiently  wet,  during  the  hottest 
hours  of  the  day. 

But  the  favourite  spot  is  the  great  fountain  in  the 
village,  where  the  people  come  to  water  their  mules. 
Here  there  is  a  constant  sheet  of  black  mud  which  neither 
the  hottest  sunshine  nor  the  strongest  wind  can  dry. 

[76] 


A  MASON- WASP 

This  bed  of  mire  is  very  unpleasant  for  the  passers-by, 
but  the  Pelopaeus  loves  to  gather  her  pellets  here,  amid 
the  hoofs  of  the  mules. 

Unlike  some  builders  in  clay,  such  as  the  Mason-bees, 
the  Wasp  does  not  improve  the  mud  to  make  it  into 
mortar,  but  uses  it  just  as  it  is.  Consequently  her  nests 
are  flimsy  work,  absolutely  unfitted  to  stand  the  changes 
and  chances  of  the  open  air.  A  drop  of  water  laid  upon 
their  surface  softens  the  spot  touched  and  reduces  it  to 
mud  again,  while  a  sprinkling  equal  to  an  average  shower 
turns  it  to  pap.  They  are  nothing  but  dried  slime,  and 
become  slime  again  as  soon  as  they  are  wetted. 

It  is  plain,  then,  that  even  if  the  young  Pelopaeus  were 
not  so  chilly  by  nature,  a  shelter  is  indispensable  for  the 
nests,  which  would  go  to  pieces  at  the  first  shower  of 
rain.  That  is  why  this  Wasp  is  so  fond  of  human  dwell- 
ings, and  especially  of  the  chimney. 

Before  receiving  its  final  coating,  which  covers  up  the 
details  of  the  building,  the  nest  has  a  certain  beauty  of 
its  own.  It  consists  of  a  cluster  of  cells,  sometimes 
arranged  side  by  side  in  a  row — which  makes  it  look 
rather  like  a  mouth-organ — but  more  often  grouped  in 
layers  placed  one  above  the  other.  I  have  sometimes 
counted  as  many  as  fifteen  cells ;  some  nests  contain  only 
ten ;  others  are  reduced  to  three  or  four,  or  even  only  one. 

In  shape  the  cells  are  not  far  from  cylinders,  slightly 

[77] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

larger  at  the  mouth  than  at  the  base.  They  are  a  little 
more  than  an  inch  long,  and  about  half  an  inch  wide. 
Their  delicate  surface  is  carefully  polished,  and  shows 
a  series  of  string-like  projections,  running  cross- wise, 
not  unlike  the  twisted  cords  of  some  kinds  of  gold-lace. 
Each  of  these  strings  is  a  layer  of  the  building ;  it  comes 
from  the  clod  of  mud  used  for  the  coping  of  the  part 
already  built.  By  counting  them  you  can  tell  how 
many  journeys  the  Wasp  has  made  in  the  course  of  her 
work.  There  are  usually  between  fifteen  and  twenty. 
For  one  cell,  therefore,  the  industrious  builder  fetches 
materials  something  like  twenty  times. 

The  mouth  of  the  cells  is,  of  course,  always  turned 
upwards.  A  pot  cannot  hold  its  contents  if  it  be  upside 
down.  And  the  Wasp's  cell  is  nothing  but  a  pot  in- 
tended to  hold  the  store  of  food,  a  pile  of  small  Spiders. 

The  cells — built  one  by  one,  stuffed  full  of  Spiders, 
and  closed  as  the  eggs  are  laid — preserve  their  pretty 
appearance  until  the  cluster  is  considered  large  enough. 
Then,  to  strengthen  her  work,  the  Wasp  covers  the  whole 
with  a  casing,  as  a  protection  and  defence.  She  lays 
on  the  plaster  without  stint  and  without  art,  giving  it 
none  of  the  delicate  finishing-touches  which  she  lavishes 
on  the  cells.  The  mud  is  applied  just  as  it  is  brought, 
and  merely  spread  with  a  few  careless  strokes.  The 
beauties  of  the  building  all  disappear  under  this  ugly 

[78] 


A  MASON-WASP 

husk.     In  this  final  state  the  nest  is  like  a  great  splash 
of  mud,  flung  against  the  wall  by  accident. 


in 


HER  PROVISIONS 

Now  that  we  know  what  the  pro  vision- jar  is  like,  we 
must  find  out  what  it  contains. 

The  young  Pelopaeus  is  fed  on  Spiders.  The  food 
does  not  lack  variety,  even  in  the  same  nest  and  the 
same  cell,  for  any  Spider  may  form  a  meal,  as  long  as 
it  is  not  too  large  for  the  jar.  The  Cross  Spider,  with 
three  crosses  of  white  dots  on  her  back,  is  the  dish  that 
occurs  oftenest.  I  think  the  reason  for  this  is  simply 
that  the  Wasp  does  not  go  far  from  home  in  her  hunting- 
trips,  and  the  Spider  with  the  crosses  is  the  easiest  to 
find. 

The  Spider,  armed  with  poison-fangs,  is  a  dangerous 
prey  to  tackle.  When  of  fair  size,  she  could  only  be 
conquered  by  a  greater  amount  of  daring  and  skill  than 
the  Wasp  possesses.  Moreover,  the  cells  are  too  small 
to  hold  a  bulky  object.  The  Wasp,  therefore,  hunts 
game  of  moderate  size.  If  she  meets  with  a  kind  of 
Spider  that  is  apt  to  become  plump,  she  always  chooses 
a  young  one.  But,  though  all  are  small,  the  size  of  her 
victims  varies  enormously,  and  this  variation  in  size 

[79] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

leads  also  to  variation  in  number.  One  cell  will  con- 
tain a  dozen  Spiders,  while  in  another  there  are  only  five 
or  six. 

Another  reason  for  her  choice  of  small  Spiders  is  that 
she  kills  them  before  potting  them  in  her  cells.  She 
falls  suddenly  upon  her  prey,  and  carries  it  off  almost 
without  pausing  in  her  flight.  The  skilful  paralysis 
practised  by  some  insects  is  unknown  to  her.  This  means 
that  when  the  food  is  stored  it  soon  decays.  Fortunately 
the  Spiders  are  small  enough  to  be  finished  at  a  single 
meal.  If  they  were  large  and  could  only  be  nibbled 
here  and  there,  they  would  decay,  and  poison  the  grubs 
in  the  nest. 

I  always  find  the  egg,  not  on  the  surface  of  the  heap, 
but  on  the  first  Spider  that  was  stored.  There  is  no 
exception  to  this  rule.  The  Wasp  places  a  Spider  at 
the  bottom  of  the  cell,  lays  her  egg  upon  it,  and  then 
piles  the  other  Spiders  on  the  top.  By  this  clever  plan 
the  grub  is  obliged  to  begin  on  the  oldest  of  the  dead 
Spiders,  and  then  go  on  to  the  more  recent.  It  always 
finds  in  front  of  it  food  that  has  not  had  time  to  decom- 
pose. 

The  egg  is  always  laid  on  the  same  part  of  the  Spider, 
the  end  containing  the  head  being  placed  on  the  plumpest 
spot.  This  is  very  pleasant  for  the  grub,  for  the  moment 
it  is  hatched  it  can  begin  eating  the  tenderest  and  nicest 

[80] 


PELOPAEUS  SPIRIFEX 

When  finished  the  work  is  amber-yellow,  and  rather  reminds 
one  of  the  outer  skin  of  an  onion 


jgAflfr  WwP^jfwK^-^&x  \?Vm\ 

Spiders. 

dier  reason  for  her  choice  of  small  Spiders  »  that 
His  them  before  potting  them  in  her  cells. 
,'U  suddenly  upon  her  prey,  and  canies  it  off  alrao. 
»uMng  in  her  flight.    The  skilful  paraly*. 
practi5C,J  by  am*  m*«s  is  unsown  »  Vr. 


rb   to  bt   liftJ*b<?ti   &t  *  * 

and  could  only  be  nibbled 
•decay,  and  poison  the  grubs 


r ' 


s  r-a  ::>r  egg,  not  on  the  surface  of  the  h 

-r  Spaier  that  was  stored.     There  is  no 

The  Wasp  places  a  Spider  at 

Tor  the  cell,  Uys  her  rgg  upon  it,  and  then 

&     rher  Spiders  on  the  top.     By  this  clever  plan 

i  obliged  to  begin  on  the  oldest  of 

-  tUrn  go  on  to  the  more  recent.     It 
t  in  tr ,-.  «>f  it  food  that  has  not  had  titae  t« 

•\€  t '**  :••  -Ai*  ?>^  ?-a'^  on  t^ie  samc  ^^  ^ 
Ktid  con  tarn »»«  ^r  head  being  pl^e^  « 
Tliis  ia  vcrv  p?  "  r-»e  ^r< 

iied  it  can  begin  catii^  OK 
[So] 


A  MASON-WASP 

food  in  the  store.  Not  a  mouthful  is  wasted,  however,  by 
these  economical  creatures.  When  the  meal  is  finished 
there  is  practically  nothing  left  of  the  whole  heap  of 
Spiders.  This  life  of  gluttony  lasts  for  eight  or  ten 
days. 

The  grub  then  sets  to  work  to  spin  its  cocoon,  a  sack 
of  pure,  perfectly  white  silk,  extremely  delicate.  Some- 
thing more  is  required  to  make  this  sack  tough  enough 
to  be  a  protection,  so  the  grub  produces  from  its  body 
a  sort  of  liquid  varnish.  As  soon  as  it  trickles  into  the 
meshes  of  the  silk  this  varnish  hardens,  and  becomes  a 
lacquer  of  exquisite  daintiness.  The  grub  then  fixes 
a  hard  plug  at  the  base  of  the  cocoon  to  make  all  secure. 

When  finished,  the  work  is  amber-yellow,  and  rather 
reminds  one  of  the  outer  skin  of  an  onion.  It  has  the 
same  fine  texture,  the  same  colour  and  transparency; 
and  like  the  onion  skin  it  rustles  when  it  is  fingered. 
From  it,  sooner  or  later  according  to  temperature,  the 
perfect  insect  is  hatched. 

It  is  possible,  while  the  Wasp  is  storing  her  cell,  to 
play  her  a  trick  which  will  show  how  purely  mechanical 
her  instincts  are.  A  cell  has  just  been  completed,  let 
us  suppose,  and  the  huntress  arrives  with  her  first  Spider. 
She  stores  it  away,  and  at  once  fastens  her  egg  on  the 
plumpest  part  of  its  body.  She  sets  out  on  a  second 

[81] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

trip.  I  take  advantage  of  her  absence  to  remove  with 
my  tweezers  from  the  bottom  of  the  cell  both  the  dead 
Spider  and  the  egg. 

The  disappearance  of  the  egg  must  be  discovered  by 
the  Wasp,  one  would  think,  if  she  possesses  the  least 
gleam  of  intelligence.  The  egg  is  small,  it  is  true,  but 
it  lies  on  a  comparatively  large  object,  the  Spider.  What 
will  the  Wasp  do  when  she  finds  the  cell  empty*?  Will 
she  act  sensibly,  and  repair  her  loss  by  laying  a  second 
egg?  Not  at  all;  she  behaves  most  absurdly. 

What  she  does  is  to  bring  a  second  Spider,  which  she 
stores  away  with  as  much  cheerful  zeal  as  if  nothing 
unfortunate  had  occurred.  She  brings  a  third  and  a 
fourth,  and  still  others,  each  of  whom  I  remove  during 
her  absence;  so  that  every  time  she  returns  from  the 
chase  the  storeroom  is  found  empty.  I  have  seen  her 
persist  obstinately  for  two  days  in  seeking  to  fill  the 
insatiable  jar,  while  my  patience  in  emptying  it  was 
equally  unflagging.  With  the  twentieth  victim — pos- 
sibly owing  to  the  fatigue  of  so  many  journeys — the 
huntress  considered  that  the  pot  was  sufficiently  supplied, 
and  began  most  carefully  to  close  the  cell  that  contained 
absolutely  nothing. 

The  intelligence  of  insects  is  limited  everywhere  in 
this  way.  The  accidental  difficulty  which  one  insect  is 
powerless  to  overcome,  any  other,  no  matter  what  its 

[82] 


A  MASON-WASP 

species,  will  be  equally  unable  to  cope  with.  I  could 
give  a  host  of  similar  examples  to  show  that  insects  are 
absolutely  without  reasoning  power,  notwithstanding  the 
wonderful  perfection  of  their  work.  A  long  series  of 
experiments  has  forced  me  to  conclude  that  they  are 
neither  free  nor  conscious  in  their  industry.  They  build, 
weave,  hunt,  stab,  and  paralyse  their  prey,  in  the  same 
way  as  they  digest  their  food,  or  secrete  the  poison  of 
their  sting,  without  the  least  understanding  of  the  means 
or  the  end.  They  are,  I  am  convinced,  completely 
ignorant  of  their  own  wonderful  talents. 

Their  instinct  cannot  be  changed.  Experience  does 
not  teach  it;  time  does  not  awaken  a  glimmer  in  its 
unconsciousness.  Pure  instinct,  if  it  stood  alone,  would 
leave  the  insect  powerless  in  the  face  of  circumstances. 
Yet  circumstances  are  always  changing,  the  unexpected 
is  always  happening.  In  this  confusion  some  power  is 
needed  by  the  insect — as  by  every  other  creature — to 
teach  it  what  to  accept  and  what  to  refuse.  It  requires 
a  guide  of  some  kind,  and  this  guide  it  certainly  pos- 
sesses. Intelligence  is  too  fine  a  word  for  it :  I  will  call 
it  discernment. 

Is  the  insect  conscious  of  what  it  does?  Yes,  and  no. 
No,  if  its  action  is  guided  by  instinct.  Yes,  if  its  action 
is  the  result  of  discernment. 

The  Pelopaeus,  for  instance,  builds  her  cells  with  earth 

[83] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

already  softened  into  mud.  This  is  instinct.  She  has 
always  built  in  this  way.  Neither  the  passing  ages  nor 
the  struggle  for  life  will  induce  her  to  imitate  the  Mason- 
bee  and  make  her  nest  of  dry  dust  and  cement. 

This  mud  nest  of  hers  needs  a  shelter  against  the  rain. 
A  hiding-place  under  a  stone,  perhaps,  sufficed  at  first. 
But  when  she  found  something  better  she  took  possession 
of  it.  She  installed  herself  in  the  home  of  man.  This 
is  discernment. 

She  supplies  her  young  with  food  in  the  form  of 
Spiders.  This  is  instinct,  and  nothing  will  ever  per- 
suade her  that  young  Crickets  are  just  as  good.  But 
should  there  be  a  lack  of  her  favourite  Cross  Spider  she 
will  not  leave  her  grubs  unfed ;  she  will  bring  them  other 
Spiders.  This  is  discernment. 

In  this  quality  of  discerment  lies  the  possibility  of 
future  improvement  for  the  insect. 


IV 


HER  ORIGIN 

The  Pelopaeus  sets  us  another  problem.  She  seeks 
the  warmth  of  our  fireplaces.  Her  nest,  built  of  soft 
mud  which  would  be  reduced  to  pulp  by  damp,  must 
have  a  dry  shelter.  Heat  is  a  necessity  to  her. 

Is  it  possible  that  she  is  a  foreigner?     Did  she  come, 

[84] 


A  MASON-WASP 

perhaps,  from  the  shores  of  Africa,  from  the  land  of 
dates  to  the  land  of  olives'?  It  would  be  natural,  in  that 
case,  that  she  should  find  our  sunshine  not  warm  enough 
for  her,  and  should  seek  the  artificial  warmth  of  the  fire- 
side. This  would  explain  her  habits,  so  unlike  those 
of  the  other  Wasps,  by  all  of  whom  mankind  is  avoided. 

What  was  her  life  before  she  became  our  guest? 
Where  did  she  lodge  before  there  were  any  houses'? 
Where  did  she  shelter  her  grubs  before  chimneys  were 
thought  of? 

Perhaps,  when  the  early  inhabitants  of  the  hills  near 
Serignan  were  making  weapons  out  of  flints,  scraping 
goatskins  for  clothes,  and  building  huts  of  mud  and 
branches,  those  huts  were  already  frequented  by  the 
Pelopaeus.  Perhaps  she  built  her  nest  in  some  bulging 
pot,  shaped  out  of  clay  by  the  thumbs  of  our  ancestors; 
or  in  the  folds  of  the  garments,  the  skins  of  the  Wolf 
and  the  Bear.  When  she  made  her  home  on  the  rough 
walls  of  branches  and  clay,  did  she  choose  the  nearest 
spot,  I  wonder,  to  the  hole  in  the  roof  by  which  the  smoke 
was  let  out?  Though  not  equal  to  our  chimnevs  it  may 
have  served  at  a  pinch. 

If  the  Pelopaeus  really  lived  here  with  the  earliest 
human  inhabitants,  what  improvements  she  has  seen! 
She  too  must  have  profited  greatly  by  civilisation :  she 
has  turned  man's  increasing  comfort  into  her  own. 

[85] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

When  the  dwelling  with  a  roof  and  a  ceiling  was 
planned,  and  the  chimney  with  a  flue  was  invented,  we 
can  imagine  the  chilly  creature  saying  to  herself : 

"How  pleasant  this  is !     Let  us  pitch  our  tent  here." 

But  we  will  go  back  further  still.  Before  huts 
existed,  before  the  niche  in  the  rut,  before  man  himself 
had  appeared,  where  did  the  Pelopaeus  build4?  The 
question  does  not -stand  alone.  Where  did  the  Swallow 
and  the  Sparrow  build  before  there  were  windows  and 
chimneys  to  build  in? 

Since  the  Swallow,  the  Sparrow,  and  the  Wasp  existed 
before  man,  their  industry  cannot  be  dependent  on  the 
works  of  man.  Each  of  them  must  have  had  an  art  of 
building  in  the  time  when  man  was  not  here. 

For  thirty  years  and  more  I  asked  myself  where  the 
Pelopaeus  lived  in  those  times.  Outside  our  houses  I 
could  find  no  trace  of  her  nests.  At  last  chance,  which 
favours  the  persevering,  came  to  my  help. 

The  Serignan  quarries  are  full  of  broken  stones,  of 
refuse  that  has  been  piled  there  in  the  course  of  cen- 
turies. Here  the  Fieldmouse  crunches  his  olive-stones 
and  acorns,  or  now  and  then  a  Snail.  The  empty  Snail- 
shells  lie  here  and  there  beneath  a  stone,  and  within 
them  different  Bees  and  Wasps  build  their  cells.  In 
searching  for  these  treasures  I  found,  three  times,  the 
nest  of  a  Pelopaeus  among  the  broken  stones. 

[86] 


A  MASON-WASP 

These  three  nests  were  exactly  the  same  as  those 
found  in  our  houses.  The  material  was  mud,  as  always; 
the  protective  covering  was  the  same  mud.  The  dangers 
of  the  site  had  suggested  no  improvements  to  the  builder. 
We  see,  then,  that  sometimes,  but  very  rarely,  the  Pe- 
lopaeus  builds  in  stoneheaps  and  under  flat  blocks  of  stone 
that  do  not  touch  the  ground.  It  was  in  such  places 
as  these  that  she  must  have  made  her  nest  before  she 
invaded  our  houses. 

The  three  nests,  however,  were  in  a  piteous  state. 
The  damp  and  exposure  had  ruined  them,  and  the  cocoons 
were  in  pieces.  Unprotected  by  their  earthen  cover  the 
grubs  had  perished — eaten  by  a  Fieldmouse  or  another. 

The  sight  of  these  ruins  made  me  wonder  if  my  neigh- 
bourhood were  really  a  suitable  place  for  the  Pelopaeus 
to  build  her  nest  out  of  doors.  It  is  plain  that  the  mother 
Wasp  dislikes  doing  so,  and  is  hardly  ever  driven  to  such 
a  desperate  measure.  And  if  the  climate  makes  it  im- 
possible for  her  to  practise  the  industry  of  her  forefathers 
successfully,  I  think  we  may  conclude  that  she  is  a 
foreigner.  Surely  she  comes  from  a  hotter  and  drier 
climate,  where  there  is  little  rain  and  no  snow. 

I  believe  the  Pelopaeus  is  of  African  origin.  Far 
back  in  the  past  she  came  to  us  through  Spain  and  Italy, 
and  she  hardly  ever  goes  further  north  than  the  olive- 
trees.  She  is  an  African  who  has  become  a  naturalised 

[87] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

Provencal.  In  Africa  she  is  said  often  to  nest  under 
stones,  but  in  the  Malay  Archipelago  we  hear  of  her  kins- 
woman in  houses.  From  one  end  of  the  world  to  the 
other  she  has  the  same  tastes —  Spiders,  mud  cells,  and  the 
shelter  of  a  man's  roof.  If  I  were  in  the  Malay  Archi- 
pelago I  should  turn  over  the  stone-heaps,  and  should 
most  likely  discover  a  nest  in  the  original  position,  under 
a  flat  stone. 


[88] 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  PSYCHES 

I 
A  WELL-DRESSED  CATERPILLAR 

IN  the  springtime,  those  who  have  eyes  to  see  may 
find  a  surprise  on  old  walls  and  dusty  roads. 
Certain  tiny  faggots,  for  no  apparent  reason,  set 
themselves  in  motion  and  make  their  way  along  by 
sudden  jerks.     The  lifeless  comes  to  life :  the  immovable 
moves.     This  is  indeed  amazing.     If  we  look  closer, 
however,  we  shall  solve  the  riddle. 

Enclosed  within  the  moving  bundle  is  a  fair-sized 
Caterpillar,  prettily  striped  with  black  and  white.  He 
is  seeking  for  food,  and  perhaps  for  some  spot  where 
he  can  turn  into  a  Moth.  He  hurries  along  timidly, 
dressed  in  a  queer  garment  of  twigs,  which  completely 
covers  the  whole  of  him  except  his  head  and  the  front 
part  of  his  body,  with  its  six  short  legs.  At  the  least 
alarm  he  disappears  entirely  into  his  case,  and  does  not 
budge  again.  This  is  the  secret  of  the  walking  bundle 
of  sticks.  It  is  a  Faggot  Caterpillar,  belonging  to  the 
group  known  as  the  Psyches. 

[89] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

To  protect  himself  from  the  weather  the  chilly,  bare- 
skinned  Psyche  builds  himself  a  portable  shelter,  a 
travelling  cottage  which  the  owner  never  leaves  until 
he  becomes  a  Moth.  It  is,  indeed,  something  better  than 
a  hut  on  wheels,  with  a  thatched  roof  to  it:  it  is  more 
like  a  hermit's  frock,  made  of  an  unusual  kind  of  ma- 
terial. In  the  valley  of  the  Danube  the  peasant  wears 
a  goatskin  cloak  fastened  with  a  belt  of  rushes.  The 
Psyche  wears  even  rougher  raiment  than  this :  he  makes 
himself  a  suit  of  clothes  out  of  sticks.  And  since  this 
would  be  a  regular  hair-shirt  to  a  skin  so  delicate  as  his, 
he  puts  in  a  thick  lining  of  silk. 

In  April,  on  the  walls  of  my  chief  workshop — my 
stony  harmas  with  its  wealth  of  insect  life — I  find  the 
Psyche  who  will  supply  me  with  my  most  detailed  infor- 
mation. He  is  in  the  torpid  state  which  shows  he  will 
soon  become  a  Moth.  It  is  a  good  opportunity  for 
examining  his  bundle  of  sticks,  or  case. 

It  is  a  fairly  regular  object,  shaped  like  a  spindle,  and 
about  an  inch  and  a  half  long.  The  pieces  that  compose 
it  are  fixed  in  front  and  free  at  the  back.  They  are 
arranged  anyhow,  and  would  form  rather  a  poor  shelter 
against  the  sun  and  rain  if  the  hermit  had  no  other 
protection  than  this. 

At  the  first  glance  it  appears  like  thatch;  but  thatch 
is  not  an  exact  description  of  it,  for  grain-stems  are  rarely 

[90] 


THE   PSYCHES 

This  is  the  secret  of  the  zvalking  bundle  of  sticks.    It  is  a  Faggot 
Caterpillar,  belonging  to  the  group  known  as  the  Psyches 


JKA&RE'S  BO 

T*  pro tcct  liim-elf  & '  <  b; 

' '    ' 

travelling  cottage  which  the  owner  otver  tea* -j 
lie  becomes  a  Moth,     It  is,  indeed,  something  Lvi  v 
a  hut  on  wheels,  with  a  thatched  roof  fe  it:   it  I*  raw 
like  a  hermit's  {rock,  made  of  an  unu&KU*  '&m*3  of  ma- 
terial.    In  the  s;aU<*y  ot  the  Danube  ih*  r  -4s*?>s  wears 
a  goai'-kin  <:'<v;ik  fastened  \viih  a  belt  of  r»u»}i<:-*.     The 
Py. :  !!c    >'v;vr.-  c^en  rov-^hf  ruinKnt  than  this:  he  irutc4* 
01  rj-.ch<,.-     ; •;:  of  sticks.     And  since  this 
Ti'.a  iid  ;  'f  irr  tv>  a  skin  so  delicate  as  his, 

v-i    an/  chief  workshop — my 

fl'.r*     f  inject  life — I  fmd  the 

:i>  T.ost  detailed  infor- 

*i.\         [r\  -i1^  -  wh^ch  show-  he  will 

•A    Vii,ri.  ;\  ^o.ni   opportunity   for 

•  ..-..:r.      i . ..  •       bun-Jlf::-;  M' s  k  •'•'•   .j-:  ra;»e. 

•    rci..*i;iar  \)("'5«^  •'.  -iu'ip^u  iikf  a  spindie,  and 

ir>t       ;ir.  ...  •   fc«r-.u  u  ha*T  U»ng.      The  pieces  that  compose 

n     i'.v^.i      ,•   from  and  tr^c  at  the  back.     They  ;tre 

tvj£&4  '-?'>  .i-.»--s  *tnd  would  form  rather  a  poor  ^-riter 

.;^  u:-t  rhr  sun   aiv{  rain  if  the  hermit  ha*i  ««  ^ffaer 

pr-:.iie> -t  }»->n  rhsin  this. 

AT  thr-  lir^r  glance  i?  ^pjxrars  like  tharch;  but  thairli 

-  r»t*T  an  i*xact  description  of  it,  for  grain-stems  are  rarely 


THE  PSYCHES 

found  in  it.  The  chief  materials  are  remnants  of  very 
small  stalks,  light,  soft,  and  rich  in  pith;  next  in  order 
come  bits  of  grass-leaves,  scaly  twigs  from  the  cypress- 
tree,  and  all  sorts  of  little  sticks;  and  lastly,  if  the 
favourite  pieces  run  short,  fragments  of  dry  leaves. 

In  short  the  Caterpillar,  while  preferring  pithy  pieces, 
will  use  anything  he  comes  across,  provided  it  be  light, 
very  dry,  softened  by  long  exposure,  and  of  the  right 
size.  All  his  materials  are  used  just  as  they  are,  with- 
out any  alterations  or  sawings  to  make  them  the  proper 
length.  He  does  not  cut  the  laths  that  form  his  roof; 
he  gathers  them  as  he  finds  them.  His  work  is  limited 
to  fixing  them  at  the  fore-end. 

In  order  to  lend  itself  to  the  movements  of  the  travel- 
ling Caterpillar,  and  particularly  to  enable  the  head  and 
legs  to  move  freely  while  a  new  piece  is  being  fixed  in 
position,  the  front  part  of  this  case  or  sheath  must  be 
made  in  a  special  way.  Here  a  casing  of  sticks  is  no 
longer  suitable,  for  their  length  and  stiffness  would  ham- 
per the  workman  and  even  make  his  work  impossible. 
What  is  required  here  is  a  flexible  neck,  able  to  move  in 
all  directions.  The  collection  of  stakes,  therefore,  ends 
suddenly  at  some  distance  from  the  fore-part,  and  is 
there  replaced  by  a  collar  where  the  silk  lining  is  merely 
hardened  with  very  tiny  particles  of  wood,  which 
strengthen  the  material  without  making  it  less  flexible. 

[91] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

This  collar,  which  allows  of  free  movement,  is  so  impor- 
tant that  all  the  Psyches  use  it,  however  greatly  the  rest 
of  their  work  may  differ.  All  carry,  in  front  of  the  bundle 
of  sticks,  a  yielding  neck,  soft  to  the  touch,  formed  inside 
of  a  web  of  pure  silk  and  coated  outside  with  a  velvety 
sawdust,  which  the  Caterpillar  obtains  by  crushing  up 
any  sort  of  dry  straw. 

The  same  kind  of  velvet,  but  dull  and  faded — 
apparently  through  age — finishes  the  sheath  at  the  back, 
in  the  form  of  a  rather  long  projection,  open  at  the  end. 

When  I  remove  the  outside  of  the  straw  casing,  shred- 
ding it  piece  by  piece,  I  find  a  varying  number  of  laths, 
or  tiny  sticks.  I  have  counted  as  many  as  eighty,  and 
more.  Underneath  it  I  find,  from  one  end  of  the  Cater- 
pillar to  the  other,  the  same  kind  of  inner  sheath  that 
was  formerly  visible  at  the  front  and  back  only.  This 
inner  sheath  is  composed  everywhere  of  very  strong  silk, 
which  resists  without  breaking  when  pulled  by  the 
fingers.  It  is  a  smooth  tissue,  beautifully  white  inside, 
drab  and  wrinkled  outside,  where  it  bristles  with  a  crust 
of  woody  particles. 

Later  on  we  shall  see  how  the  Caterpillar  makes  him- 
self this  complicated  garment,  formed  of  three  layers, 
one  placed  upon  the  other  in  a  definite  order.  First 
comes  the  extremely  fine  satin  which  is  in  direct  contact 

[92] 


THE  PSYCHES 

with  the  skin;  next,  the  mixed  stuff  dusted  with  woody 
matter,  which  saves  the  silk  and  gives  strength  to  the 
work;  and  lastly  the  outer  casing  of  overlapping  sticks. 

Although  all  the  Psyches  wear  this  threefold  garment, 
the  different  species  make  distinct  variations  in  the  outer 
case.  There  is  one  kind,  for  instance,  whom  I  am  apt 
to  meet  towards  the  end  of  June,  hurrying  across  some 
dusty  path  near  the  houses.  His  case  surpasses  that  of 
the  first  species,  both  in  size  and  in  regularity  of  arrange- 
ment. It  forms  a  thick  coverlet  of  many  pieces,  in  which 
I  recognise  fragments  of  hollow  stalks,  bits  of  fine  straw, 
and  perhaps  "blades  of  grass.  In  front  there  is  never 
any  flounce  of  dead  leaves,  a  troublesome  piece  of  finery 
which  is  pretty  frequent,  though  not  always  used,  in  the 
costume  of  the  first  species  I  described.  At  the  back 
there  is  no  long  projection  beyond  the  outer  covering. 
Save  for  the  indispensable  collar  at  the  neck,  the  whole 
Caterpillar  is  cased  in  sticks.  There  is  not  much  variety 
about  the  thing,  but,  when  all  is  said,  there  is  a  certain 
beauty  in  its  stern  f aultlessness. 

There  is  a  smaller  and  more  simply  dressed  Psyche 
who  is  very  common  at  the  end  of  winter  on  the  walls, 
as  well  as  in  the  bark  of  gnarled  old  trees,  whether  olive- 
trees  or  elms,  or  indeed  almost  any  other.  His  case,  a 
modest  little  bundle,  is  hardly  more  than  two-fifths  of 

[93] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

an  inch  in  length.  A  dozen  rotten  straws,  picked  up 
at  random  and  fixed  close  to  one  another  in  a  parallel 
direction,  represent,  with  the  silk  sheath,  his  whole  out- 
lay on  dress. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  clothe  oneself  more  economi- 
cally. 


ii 


A  DEVOTED  MOTHER 

If  I  gather  a  number  of  little  Psyches  in  April  and 
place  them  in  a  wire  bell- jar,  I  can  find  out  more  about 
them.  Most  of  them  are  in  the  chrysalis  state,  waiting 
to  be  turned  into  Moths,  but  a  few  are  still  active  and 
clamber  to  the  top  of  the  wire  trellis.  There  they  fix 
themselves  by  means  of  a  little  silk  cushion,  and  both 
they  and  I  must  wait  for  weeks  before  anything  further 
happens. 

At  the  end  of  June  the  male  Psyche  comes  out  of  his 
case,  no  longer  a  Caterpillar,  but  a  Moth.  The  case, 
or  bundle  of  sticks,  you  will  remember,  had  two  openings, 
one  in  front  and  one  at  the  back.  The  front  one,  which 
is  the  more  regular  and  carefully  made,  is  permanently 
closed  by  being  fastened  to  the  support  on  which  the 
chrysalis  is  fixed;  so  the  Moth,  when  he  is  hatched,  is 
obliged  to  come  out  by  the  opening  at  the  back.  The 

[94] 


THE  PSYCHES 

Caterpillar  turns  round  inside  the  case  before  he  changes 
into  a  Moth. 

Though  they  wear  but  a  simple  pearl-grey  dress  and 
have  insignificant  wings,  hardly  larger  than  those  of  a 
Common  Fly,  these  little  male  Moths  are  graceful 
enough.  They  have  handsome  feathery  plumes  for 
antennae,  and  their  wings  are  edged  with  delicate  fringes. 
For  the  appearance  of  the  female  Psyche,  however, 
little  can  be  said. 

Some  days  later  than  the  others  she  comes  out  of  the 
sheath,  and  shows  herself  in  all  her  wretchedness.  Call 
that  little  fright  a  Moth!  One  cannot  easily  get  used 
to  the  idea  of  so  miserable  a  sight :  as  a  Caterpillar  she 
was  no  worse  to  look  at.  There  are  no  wings,  none  at 
all ;  there  is  no  silky  fur  either.  At  the  tip  of  her  round, 
tufty  body  she  wears  a  crown  of  dirty- white  velvet;  on 
each  segment,  in  the  middle  of  the  back,  is  a  large,  rec- 
tangular, dark  patch — her  sole  attempts  at  ornament. 
The  mother  Psyche  renounces  all  the  beauty  which  her 
name  of  Moth  seems  to  promise. 

As  she  leaves  her  chrysalid  sheath  she  lays  her  eggs 
within  it,  thus  bequeathing  the  maternal  cottage  (or  the 
maternal  garment,  if  you  will)  to  her  heirs.  As  she  lays 
a  great  many  eggs  the  affair  takes  some  thirty  hours. 
When  the  laying  is  finished  she  closes  the  door  and  makes 
everything  safe  against  invasion.  For  this  purpose 

[95] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

some  kind  of  wadding  is  required.  The  fond  mother 
makes  use  of  the  only  ornament  which,  in  her  extreme 
poverty,  she  possesses.  She  wedges  the  door  with  the 
coro'net  of  velvet  which  she  carries  at  the  tip  of  her  body. 

Finally  she  does  even  more  than  this.  She  makes  a 
rampart  of  her  body  itself.  With  a  convulsive  move- 
ment she  dies  on  the  threshold  of  her  recent  home,  her 
cast  chrysalid  skin,  and  there  her  remains  dry  up.  Even 
after  death  she  stays  at  her  post. 

If  the  outer  case  be  now  opened  it  will  be  found  to 
contain  the  chrysalid  wrapper,  uninjured  except  for  the 
opening  in  front,  by  which  the  Psyche  came  out.  The 
male  Moth,  when  obliged  to  make  his  way  through  the 
narrow  pass,  would  find  his  wings  and  his  plumes  very 
cumbersome  articles.  For  this  reason  he  makes  a  start 
for  the  door  while  he  is  still  in  the  chrysalis  state,  and 
comes  half-way  out.  Then,  as  he  bursts  his  amber- 
coloured  tunic,  he  finds,  right  in  front  of  him,  an  open 
space  where  flight  is  possible. 

But  the  mother  Moth,  being  unprovided  with  wings 
and  plumes,  is  not  compelled  to  take  any  such  precau- 
tions. Her  cylinder-like  form  is  bare,  and  differs  very 
little  from  that  of  the  Caterpillar.  It  allows  her  to 
crawl,  to  slip  into  the  narrow  passage,  and  to  come  forth 
without  difficulty.  So  she  leaves  her  cast  skin  behind 

[96] 


THE  PSYCHES 

her,  right  at  the  back  of  the  case,  well  covered  by  the 
thatched  roof. 

And  this  is  an  act  of  prudence,  showing  her  deep 
concern  for  the  fate  of  her  eggs.  They  are,  in  fact, 
packed  as  though  in  a  barrel,  in  the  parchment-like  bag 
formed  by  the  cast  skin.  The  Moth  has  methodically 
gone  on  laying  eggs  in  that  receptacle  till  it  is  full.  Not 
satisfied  with  bequeathing  her  house  and  her  velvet 
coronet  to  her  offspring,  as  the  last  act  of  her  life  she 
leaves  them  her  skin. 

Wishing  to  observe  the  course  of  events  at  my  ease 
I  once  took  one  of  these  chrysalid  bags,  stuffed  with  eggs, 
from  its  outer  casing  of  sticks,  and  placed  it  by  itself, 
beside  its  case,  in  a  glass  tube.  In  the  first  week  of 
July  I  suddenly  found  myself  in  possession  of  a  large 
family.  The  hatching  took  place  so  quickly  that  the 
new-born  Caterpillars,  about  forty  in  number,  had 
already  clothed  themselves  in  my  absence. 

They  wore  a  garment  like  a  sort  of  Persian  head-dress, 
in  dazzling  white  plush.  Or,  to  be  more  commonplace, 
a  white  cotton  night-cap  without  a  tassel.  Strange  to 
say,  however,  instead  of  wearing  their  caps  on  their 
heads,  they  wore  them  standing  up  from  their  hind- 
quarters, almost  perpendicularly.  They  roamed  about 
gaily  inside  the  tube,  which  was  a  spacious  dwelling  for 

[97] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

such  mites.  I  was  quite  determined  to  find  out  with 
what  materials  and  in  what  manner  the  first  outlines 
of  the  cap  were  woven. 

Fortunately  the  chrysalid  bag  was  far  from  being 
empty.  I  found  within  the  rumpled  wrapper  a  second 
family  as  numerous  as  those  already  out  of  the  case. 
Altogether  there  must  have  been  five  or  six  dozen  eggs. 
I  transferred  to  another  place  the  little  Caterpillars  who 
were  already  dressed,  keeping  only  the  naked  new-comers 
in  the  tube.  They  had  bright  red  heads ;  the  rest  of  their 
bodies  was  dirty- white;  and  they  measured  hardly  a 
twenty-fifth  of  an  inch  in  length. 

I  had  not  long  to  wait.  The  next  day,  little  by  little, 
singly  or  in  groups,  the  little  laggards  left  the  chrysa- 
lid bag.  They  came  out  without  breaking  that  frail 
object,  through  the  opening  in  front  made  by  their 
mother.  Not  one  of  them  used  it  as  a  dress-material, 
though  it  had  the  delicacy  and  amber  colouring  of  an 
onion-skin;  nor  did  any  of  them  make  use  of  a  certain  fine 
quilting  that  lines  the  inside  of  the  bag  and  forms  an  ex- 
quisitely soft  bed  for  the  eggs.  One  would  have  thought 
this  downy  stuff  would  make  an  excellent  blanket  for  the 
chilly  creatures,  but  not  a  single  one  used  it.  There 
would  not  be  enough  to  go  round. 

They  all  went  straight  to  the  coarse  outer  casing  of 
sticks,  which  I  had  left  in  contact  with  the  chrysalid  skin 

[98] 


THE  PSYCHES 

containing  the  eggs.  The  matter  was  urgent,  they 
evidently  felt.  Before  making  your  entrance  into  the 
world  and  going  a-hunting,  you  must  first  be  clad.  All 
therefore,  with  equal  fury,  attacked  the  old  sheath  and 
hastily  dressed  themselves  in  their  mother's  old  clothes. 

Some  turned  their  attention  to  bits  that  happened  to  be 
opened  lengthwise,  scraping  the  soft  white  inner  layer; 
others,  greatly  daring,  penetrated  into  the  tunnel  of  a 
hollow  stalk  and  collected  their  materials  in  the  dark. 
The  courage  of  these  was  rewarded;  they  secured  first- 
rate  materials  and  wove  garments  of  dazzling  white. 
There  were  others  who  bit  deeply  into  the  piece  they 
chose,  and  made  themselves  a  motley  covering,  in  which 
the  sndwy  whiteness  was  marred  by  darker  particles. 

The  tools  the  little  Caterpillars  use  for  this  purpose  are 
their  mandibles,  which  are  shaped  like  wide  shears  and 
have  five  strong  teeth  apiece.  The  two  blades  fit  into 
each  other,  and  form  an  instrument  capable  of  seizing 
and  slicing  any  fibre,  however  small.  Under  the  micro- 
scope it  is  seen  to  be  a  wonderful  specimen  of  mechanical 
precision  and  power.  If  the  Sheep  had  a  similar  tool  in 
proportion  to  her  size,  she  could  browse  on  the  stems  of 
trees  instead  of  the  grass. 

It  is  very  instructive  to  watch  these  Psyche-grubs  toil- 
ing to  make  themselves  a  cotton  night-cap.  There  are 
numbers  of  things  to  remark,  both  in  the  finish  of  the  work 

[99] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

and  the  skill  of  the  methods  they  employ.  They  are  so 
tiny  that  while  I  observe  them  through  my  magnifying 
glass  I  must  be  careful  not  to  breathe,  lest  I  should  over- 
turn them  or  puff  them  away.  Yet  this  speck  is  expert  in 
the  art  of  blanket-making.  An  orphan,  born  but  a 
moment  ago,  it  knows  how  to  cut  itself  a  garment  out  of 
its  mother's  old  clothes.  Of  its  methods  I  will  tell  you 
more  presently,  but  first  I  must  say  another  word  with 
regard  to  its  dead  mother. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  downy  quilting  that  covers  the  in- 
side of  the  chrysalid  bag.  It  is  like  a  bed  of  eider-down, 
on  which  the  little  Caterpillars  rest  for  a  while  after  leav- 
ing the  egg.  Warmly  nestling  in  this  soft  rug  they  pre- 
pare themselves  for  their  plunge  into  the  outer  world  of 
work. 

The  Eider  robs  herself  of  her  down  to  make  a  luxurious 
bed  for  her  brood;  the  mother  Rabbit  shears  from  her  own 
body  the  softest  part  of  her  fur  to  provide  a  mattress  for 
her  new-born  family.  And  the  same  thing  is  done  by  the 
Psyche. 

The  mass  of  soft  wadding  that  makes  a  warm  coverlet 
for  the  baby  Caterpillar  is  a  material  of  incomparable 
delicacy.  Through  the  microscope  it  can  be  recognised  as 
the  scaly  dust,  the  intensely  fine  down  in  which  every 
Moth  is  clad.  To  give  a  snug  shelter  to  the  little  grubs 
who  will  soon  be  swarming  in  the  case,  to  provide  them 

[100] 


THE  PSYCHES 

with  a  refuge  in  which  they  can  play  about  and  gather 
strength  before  entering  the  wide  world,  the  Psyche 
strips  herself  of  her  fur  like  the  mother  Rabbit. 

This  may  possibly  be  done  mechanically;  it  may  be  the 
unintentional  effect  of  rubbing  repeatedly  against  the 
low-roofed  walls ;  but  there  is  nothing  to  tell  us  so.  Even 
the  humblest  mother  has  her  foresight.  It  is  quite  likely 
that  the  hairy  Moth  twists  about,  and  goes  to  and  fro  in 
the  narrow  passage,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  her  fleece  and 
prepare  bedding  for  her  family. 

I  have  read  in  books  that  the  young  Psyches  begin  life 
by  eating  up  their  mother.  I  have  seen  nothing  of  the 
sort,  and  I  do  not  even  understand  how  the  idea  arose. 
Indeed,  she  has  given  up  so  much  for  her  family  that 
there  is  nothing  left  of  her  but  some  thin,  dry  strips — not 
enough  to  provide  a  meal  for  so  numerous  a  brood.  No, 
my  little  Psyches,  you  do  not  eat  your  mother.  In  vain 
do  I  watch  you:  never,  either  to  clothe  or  to  feed  him- 
self, does  any  one  of  you  lay  a  tooth  upon  the  remains  of 
the  deceased. 

in 

A   CLEVER  TAILOR 

I  will  now  describe  in  greater  detail  the  dressing  of 
the  grubs. 

[101] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

The  hatching  of  the  eggs  takes  place  in  the  first  fort- 
night of  July.  The  head  and  upper  part  of  the  little 
grubs  are  of  a  glossy  black,  the  next  two  segments  are 
brownish,  and  the  rest  of  the  body  is  a  pale  amber.  They 
are  sharp,  lively  little  creatures,  who  run  about  with 
short,  quick  steps. 

For  a  time,  after  they  are  out  of  the  bag  where  they  are 
hatched,  they  remain  in  the  heap  of  fluff  that  was  stripped 
from  their  mother.  Here  there  is  more  room,  and  more 
comfort  too,  than  in  the  bag  whence  they  came ;  and  while 
some  take  a  rest,  others  bustle  about  and  exercise  them- 
selves in  walking.  They  are  all  picking  up  strength  be- 
fore leaving  the  outer  case. 

They  do  not  stay  long  amid  this  luxury.  Gradually, 
as  they  gain  vigour,  they  come  out  and  spread  over  the 
surface  of  the  case.  Work  begins  at  once,  a  very  urgent 
work — that  of  dressing  themselves.  By  and  by  they 
will  think  of  food :  at  present  nothing  is  of  any  import- 
ance but  clothes. 

Montaigne,  when  putting  on  a  cloak  which  his  father 
had  worn  before  him,  used  to  say,  "I  dress  myself  in  my 
father."  Well,  the  young  Psyches  in  the  same  way  dress 
themselves  in  their  mother.  (In  the  same  way,  it  must 
be  remembered;  not  in  her  skin,  but  in  her  clothes.)' 
From  the  outer  case  of  sticks,  which  I  have  sometimes 
described  as  a  house  and  sometimes  as  a  garment,  they 

[102] 


THE  PSYCHES 

scrape  the  material  to  make  themselves  a  frock.  The 
stuff  they  use  is  the  pith  of  the  little  stalks,  especially  of 
the  pieces  that  are  split  lengthwise,  because  the  contents 
are  more  easily  taken  from  these. 

The  manner  of  beginning  the  garment  is  worth  noting. 
The  tiny  creature  employs  a  method  as  ingenious  as 
any  that  we  could  hope  to  discover.  The  wadding  is 
collected  in  pellets  of  infinitesimal  size.  How  are  these 
little  pellets  to  be  fixed  and  joined  together?  The 
manufacturer  needs  a  support,  a  base;  and  this  support 
cannot  be  obtained  on  the  Caterpillar's  own  body.  The 
difficulty  is  overcome  very  cleverly.  The  pellets  are 
gathered  together,  and  by  degrees  fastened  to  one  another 
with  threads  of  silk — for  the  Caterpillar,  as  you  know, 
can  spin  silk  from  his  own  body  as  the  Spider  spins  her 
web.  In  this  way  a  sort  of  garland  is  formed,  with  the 
pellets  or  particles  swinging  in  a  row  from  the  same  rope. 
When  it  is  long  enough  this  garland  is  passed  round 
the  waist  of  the  little  creature,  in  such  a  way  as  to  leave 
its  six  legs  free.  Then  it  ties  the  ends  together  with  a 
bit  of  silk,  so  that  it  forms  a  girdle  round  the  grub's 
body. 

This  girdle  is  the  starting-point  and  support  of  the 
whole  work.  To  lengthen  it,  and  enlarge  it  into  a  com- 
plete garment,  the  grub  has  only  to  fix  to  it  the  scraps 
of  pith  which  the  mandibles  never  cease  tearing  from 

[103] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

the  case.  These  scraps  or  pellets  are  sometimes  placed 
at  the  top,  sometimes  at  the  bottom  or  side,  but  they  are 
always  fixed  at  the  fore-edge.  No  device  could  be  better 
contrived  than  this  garland,  first  laid  out  flat  and  then 
buckled  like  a  belt  round  the  body. 

Once  this  start  is  made  the  weaving  goes  on  well. 
Gradually  the  girdle  grows  into  a  scarf,  a  waistcoat,  a 
short  jacket,  and  lastly  a  sack,  and  in  a  few  hours  it  is 
complete — a  conical  hood  or  cloak  of  magnificent  white- 
ness. 

Thanks  to  his  mother's  care  the  little  grub  is  spared 
the  perils  of  roaming  about  in  a  state  of  nakedness.  If 
she  did  not  place  her  family  in  her  old  case  they  might 
have  great  difficulty  in  clothing  themselves,  for  straws 
and  stalks  rich  in  pith  are  not  found  everywhere.  And 
yet,  unless  they  died  of  exposure,  it  appears  that  sooner 
or  later  they  would  find  some  kind  of  garment,  since 
they  seem  ready  to  use  any  material  that  comes  to  hand. 
I  have  made  many  experiments  with  new-born  grubs 
in  a  glass  tube. 

From  the  stalks  of  a  sort  of  dandelion  they  scraped, 
without  the  least  hesitation,  a  superb  white  pith,  and 
made  it  into  a  delicious  white  cloak,  much  finer  than 
any  they  would  have  obtained  from  the  remains  of  their 
mother's  clothes.  An  even  better  garment  was  woven 
from  some  pith  taken  from  the  kitchen-broom.  This 

[104] 


THE  PSYCHES 

time  the  work  glittered  with  little  sparks,  like  specks 
of  crystal  or  grains  of  sugar.  It  was  my  manufacturers' 
masterpiece. 

The  next  material  I  offered  them  was  a  piece  of 
blotting-paper.  Here  again  my  grubs  did  not  hesitate : 
they  lustily  scraped  the  surface  and  made  themselves  a 
paper  coat.  Indeed,  they  were  so  much  pleased  with 
this  that  when  I  gave  them  their  native  case  they  scorned 
it,  preferring  the  blotting-paper. 

To  others  I  gave  nothing  at  all.  Not  to  be  baffled, 
however,  they  hastened  to  scrape  the  cork  of  the  tube 
and  break  it  into  atoms.  Out  of  these  they  made  them- 
selves a  frock  of  cork-grains,  as  faultless  as  though  they 
and  their  ancestors  had  always  made  use  of  this  material. 
The  novelty  of  the  stuff,  which  perhaps  no  Caterpillar 
had  ever  used  before,  made  no  difference  in  the  cut  of  the 
garment. 

Finding  them  ready  to  accept  any  vegetable  matter 
that  was  dry  and  light,  I  next  tried  them  with  animal 
and  mineral  substances.  I  cut  a  strip  from  the  wing  of 
a  Great  Peacock  Moth,  and  placed  two  little  naked 
Caterpillars  upon  it.  For  a  long  time  they  both  hesi- 
tated. Then  one  of  them  resolved  to  use  the  strange 
carpet.  Before  the  day  was  over  he  had  clothed  himself 
in  grey  velvet  made  of  the  Great  Peacock's  scales. 

I  next  took  some  soft,  flaky  stones,  such  as  will  break 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

at  the  merest  touch  into  atoms  nearly  as  fine  as  the  dust 
on  a  Butterfly's  wing.  On  a  bed  of  this  powdery  stuff, 
which  glittered  like  steel  filings,  I  placed  four  Cater- 
pillars in  need  of  clothes.  One,  and  one  alone,  decided 
to  dress  himself.  His  metallic  garment,  from  which 
the  light  drew  flashes  of  every  colour  of  the  rainbow, 
was  very  rich  and  sumptuous,  but  mightily  heavy  and 
cumbrous.  Walking  became  laborious  under  that  load 
of  metal.  Even  so  must  a  Byzantine  Emperor  have 
walked  at  ceremonies  of  State. 

In  cases  of  necessity,  then,  the  young  Caterpillar  does 
not  shrink  from  acts  of  sheer  madness.  So  urgent  is 
his  need  to  clothe  himself  that  he  will  weave  mineral 
matter  rather  than  go  naked.  Food  means  less  to  him 
than  clothes.  If  I  make  him  fast  for  a  couple  of  days, 
and  then,  having  robbed  him  of  his  garment,  place  him 
on  his  favourite  foo'd,  a  leaf  of  very  hairy  hawkweed,  he 
will  make  himself  a  new  coat  before  satisfying  his 
hunger. 

This  devotion  -to  dress  is  due,  not  to  any  special  sensi- 
tiveness to  cold,  but  to  the  young  Caterpillar's  foresight. 
Other  Caterpillars  take  shelter  among  the  leaves,  in 
underground  cells,  or  in  the  cracked  bark  of  trees,  but 
the  Psyche  spends  his  winter  exposed  to  the  weather. 
He  therefore  prepares  himself,  from  his  birth,  for  the 
perils  of  the  cold  season. 

[106] 


THE  PSYCHES 

As  soon  as  he  is  threatened  with  the  rains  of  autumn 
he  begins  to  work  upon  his  outer  case.  It  is  very  rough 
at  first.  Straws  of  uneven  length  and  bits  of  dry  leaves 
are  fastened,  with  no  attempt  at  order,  behind  the  neck 
of  the  sack  or  undergarment,  which  must  remain  flexible 
so  as  to  allow  the  Caterpillar  to  bend  freely  in  every 
direction.  These  untidy  first  logs  of  the  outer  case  will 
not  interfere  with  the  final  regularity  of  the  building: 
they  will  be  pushed  back  and  driven  out  as  the  sack 
grows  longer  in  front. 

After  a  time  the  pieces  are  longer  and  more  carefully 
chosen,  and  are  all  laid  on  lengthwise.  The  placing 
of  a  straw  is  done  with  surprising  speed  and  skill.  The 
Caterpillar  turns  it  round  and  round  between  his  legs, 
and  then,  gripping  it  in  his  mandibles,  removes  a  few 
morsels  from  one  end,  and  immediately  fixes  them  to 
the  end  of  the  sack.  He  probably  does  this  in  order  that 
the  silk  may  obtain  a  firmer  hold,  as  a  plumber  gives  a 
touch  of  the  file  to  a  point  that  is  to  be  soldered. 

Then,  by  sheer  strength  of  jaw,  he  lifts  and  brandishes 
his  straw  in  the  air  before  laying  it  on  his  back.  At 
once  the  spinneret  sets  to  work  and  fixes  it  in  place. 
Without  any  groping  about  or  correcting,  the  thing  is 
done.  By  the  time  the  cold  weather  arrives  the  warm 
case  is  complete. 

But  the  silky  felt  of  the  interior  is  never  thick  enough 

[107] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

to  please  the  Caterpillar.  When  spring  comes  he  spends 
all  his  spare  time  in  improving  his  quilt,  in  making  it 
ever  thicker  and  softer.  Even  if  I  take  off  his  outer  case 
he  refuses  to  rebuild  it:  he  persists  in  adding  new  layers 
to  the  lining,  even  when  there  is  nothing  to  be  lined. 
The  sack  is  lamentably  flabby;  it  sags  and  rumples.  He 
has  no  protection  nor  shelter.  No  matter.  The  hour 
for  carpentry  has  passed.  The  hour  has  come  for  up- 
holstering; and  he  upholsters  obstinately,  padding  a 
house — or  lining  a  garment — that  no  longer  exists.  He 
-will  perish  miserably,  cut  up  by  the  Ants,  as  the  result 
of  his  too-rigid  instinct. 


[108] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  SELF-DENIAL  OF  THE  SPANISH  COPRIS 

YOU  remember,  I  hope,  the  Sacred  Beetle,  who 
spends    her   time   in   making   balls,    both   to 
serve  as  food  and  also  to  be  the  foundation 
of  her  pear-shaped  nest.     I  pointed  out  the  advantages 
of  this  shape  for  the  young  Beetles,  since  the  globe  is 
the  best  form  that  could  be  invented  to  keep  their  pro- 
visions from  becoming  dry  and  hard. 

After  watching  this  Beetle  at  work  for  a  long  time  I 
began  to  wonder  if  I  had  not  perhaps  been  mistaken  in 
admiring  her  instinct  so  greatly.  Was  it  really  care 
for  her  grubs,  I  asked  myself,  that  taught  her  to  provide 
them  with  the  tenderest  and  most  suitable  food?  It  is 
the  trade  of  the  Sacred  Beetle  to  make  balls.  Is  it  won- 
derful that  she  should  continue  her  ball-making  under- 
ground? A  creature  built  with  long  curved  legs,  very 
useful  for  rolling  balls  across  the  fields,  will  go  on  with 
her  favourite  occupation  wherever  she  may  be,  without 
regard  to  her  grubs.  Perhaps  the  shape  of  the  pear  is 
mere  chance. 

To  settle  this  question  satisfactorily  in  my  own  mind 
I  should  need  to  be  shown  a  Scavenger  Beetle  who  was 

[109] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

utterly  unfamiliar  with  the  ball-making  business  in 
everyday  life,  and  who  yet,  when  laying-time  was  at 
hand,  made  an  abrupt  change  in  her  habits  and  stored 
her  provisions  in  the  form  of  a  round  lump.  That  would 
show  me  that  it  was  not  merely  custom,  but  care  for  her 
grubs,  that  made  her  choose  the  globular  shape  for  her 
nest. 

Now  in  my  neighbourhood  there  is  a  Beetle  of  this 
very  kind.  She  is  one  of  the  handsomest  and  largest, 
though  not  so  imposing  as  the  Sacred  Beetle.  Her  name 
is  the  Spanish  Copris,  and  she  is  remarkable  for  the  sharp 
slope  of  her  chest  and  the  size  of  the  horn  surmounting 
her  head. 

Being  round  and  squat,  the  Spanish  Copris  is  certainly 
incapable  of  such  gymnastics  as  are  performed  by  the 
Sacred  Beetle.  Her  legs,  which  are  insignificant  in 
length,  and  which  she  folds  under  her  body  at  the 
slightest  alarm,  are  not  in  the  least  like  the  stilts  of  the 
pill-rollers.  Their  stunted  form  and  their  lack  of  flexi- 
bility are  enough  in  themselves  to  tell  us  that  their  owner 
would  not  care  to  roam  about  burdened  with  a  rolling 
ball. 

The  Copris,  indeed,  is  not  of  an  active  nature.  Once 
she  has  found  her  provisions,  at  night  or  in  the  evening 
twilight,  she  begins  to  dig  a  burrow  on  the  spot.  It  is 
a  rough  cavern,  large  enough  to  hold  an  apple.  Here 

[110] 


SELF-DENIAL  OF  THE  SPANISH  COPRIS 

is  introduced,  bit  by  bit,  the  stuff  that  is  just  overhead, 
or  at  any  rate  lying  on  the  threshold  of  the  cave.  An 
enormous  supply  of  food  is  stored  in  a  shapless  mass, 
plain  evidence  of  the  insect's  gluttony.  As  long  as 
the  hoard  lasts  the  Copris  remains  underground.  When 
the  larder  is  empty  the  insect  searches  out  a  fresh  supply 
of  food,  and  scoops  out  another  burrow. 

For  the  time  being  the  Copris  is  merely  a  scavenger, 
a  gatherer  of  manure.  She  is  evidently  quite  ignorant, 
at  present,  of  the  art  of  kneading  and  modelling  a  round 
loaf.  Besides,  her  short  clumsy  legs  seem  utterly  un- 
suited  for  any  such  art. 

In  May  or  June,  however,  comes  laying-time.  The 
insect  becomes  very  particular  about  choosing  the  softest 
materials  for  her  family's  food.  Having  found  what 
pleases  her,  she  buries  it  on  the  spot,  carrying  it  down 
by  armfuls,  bit  by  bit.  There  is  no  travelling,  no  cart- 
ing, no  preparation.  I  observe,  too,  that  the  burrow  is 
larger  and  better  built  than  the  temporary  Abodes  in 
which  the  Copris  takes  her  own  meals. 

Finding  it  difficult  to  observe  the  insect  closely  in  its 
wild  state,  I  resolved  to  place  it  in  my  insect-house,  and 
there  watch  it  at  my  ease. 

The  poor  creature  was  at  first  a  little  nervous  in 
captivity,  and  when  she  had  made  her  burrow  was  very 
cautious  about  entering  it.  By  degrees,  however,  she 

[in] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

was  reassured,  and  in  a  single  night  she  stored  a  supply 
of  the  food  I  had  provided  for  her. 

Before  a  week  was  out  I  dug  up  the  soil  in  my  insect- 
house,  and  brought  to  light  the  burrow  I  had  seen  her 
storing  with  provisions.  It  was  a  spacious  hall,  with 
an  irregular  roof  and  an  almost  level  floor.  In  a  corner 
was  a  round  hole  leading  to  a  slanting  gallery,  which  ran 
up  to  the  surface  of  the  soil.  The  walls  of  this  dwelling, 
which  was  hollowed  out  of  fresh  earth,  had  been  care- 
fully compressed,  and  were  strong  enough  to  resist  the 
earthquake  caused  by  my  experiments.  It  was  easy  to 
see  that  the  insect  had  put  forth  all  her  skill,  all  her 
digging-powers,  in  the  making  of  this  permanent  home, 
whereas  her  own  dining-room  had  been  a  mere  cave,  with 
walls  that  were  none  too  safe. 

I  suspect  she  is  helped,  in  the  building  of  this  archi- 
tectural masterpiece,  by  her  mate:  at  least  I  often  see 
him  with  her  in  the  burrows.  I  also  believe  that  he  lends 
his  partner  a  hand  with  the  collecting  and  storing  of  the 
provisions.  It  is  a  quicker  job  when  there  are  two  to 
work.  But  once  the  home  is  well  stocked  he  retires: 
he  makes  his  way  back  to  the  surface  and  settles  down 
elsewhere.  His  part  in  the  family  mansion  is  ended. 

Now  what  do  I  find  in  this  mansion,  into  which  I 
have  seen  so  many  tiny  loads  of  provisions  lowered? 
A  mass  of  small  pieces,  heaped  together  anyhow?  Not 

[112] 


SELF-DENIAL  OF  THE  SPANISH  COPRIS 

a  bit  of  it.  I  always  find  a  simple  lump,  a  huge  mass 
which  fills  the  dwelling  except  for  a  narrow  passage. 

This  lump  has  no  fixed  shape.  I  come  across  some 
that  are  like  a  Turkey's  egg  in  form  and  size ;  some  the 
shape  of  a  common  onion;  I  find  some  that  are  almost 
round,  and  remind  me  of  a  Dutch  cheese;  I  see  some 
that  are  circular,  with  a  slight  swelling  on  the  upper 
surface.  In  every  case  the  surface  is  smooth  and  nicely 
curved. 

There  is  no  mistaking  what  has  happened.  The 
mother  has  collected  and  kneaded  into  one  lump  the 
numerous  fragments  brought  down  one  after  the  other. 
Out  of  all  those  particles  she  has  made  a  single  lump, 
by  mashing  them,  working  them  together,  and  treading 
on  them.  Time  after  time  I  have  seen  her  on  top  of 
the  colossal  loaf  which  is  so  much  larger  than  the  ball 
of  the  Sacred  Beetle — a  mere  pill  in  comparison.  She 
strolls  about  on  the  convex  surface,  which  sometimes 
measures  as  much  as  four  inches  across;  she  pats  the  mass, 
and  makes  it  firm  and  level.  I  only  catch  a  sight  of  the 
curious  scene,  for  the  moment  she  sees  me  she  slips  down 
the  curved  slope  and  hides  away. 

With  the  help  of  a  row  of  glass  jars,  all  enclosed  in 
opaque  sheaths  of  cardboard,  I  can  find  out  a  good  many 
interesting  things.  In  the  first  place  I  have  found  that 
the  big  loaf  does  not  owe  its  curve — which  is  always 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

regular,  no  matter  how  much  the  slope  may  vary — to 
any  rolling  process.  Indeed  I  already  knew  that  so 
large  a  mess  could  not  have  been  rolled  into  a  hole  that 
it  nearly  fills.  Besides,  the  strength  of  the  insect  would 
be  unequal  to  moving  so  great  a  load. 

Every  time  I  go  to  the  jar  the  evidence  is  the  same. 
I  always  see  the  mother  Beetle  twisted  on  top  of  the 
lump,  feeling  here  and  feeling  there,  giving  little  taps, 
and  making  the  thing  smooth.  Never  do  I  catch  her 
looking  as  if  she  wanted  to  turn  the  block.  It  is  clear  as 
daylight  that  rolling  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter. 

At  last  it  is  ready.  The  baker  divides  his  lump  of 
dough  into  smaller  lumps,  each  of  which  will  become  a 
loaf.  The  Copris  does  the  same  thing.  By  making 
a  circular  cut  with  the  sharp  edge  of  her  forehead,  and 
at  the  same  time  using  the  saw  of  her  fore-legs,  she  de- 
taches from  the  mass  a  piece  of  the  size  she  requires. 
In  giving  this  stroke  she  has  no  hesitation:  there  are 
no  after-touches,  adding  a  bit  here  and  taking  off  a  bit 
there.  Straight  away,  with  one  sharp,  decisive  cut,  she 
obtains  the  proper-sized  lump. 

Next  comes  the  question  of  shaping  it.  Clasping  it 
as  best  she  can  in  her  short  arms,  so  little  adapted,  one 
would  think,  for  work  of  this  kind,  the  Copris  rounds 
her  lump  of  food  by  pressure,  and  pressure  only.  Sol- 


SELF-DENIAL  OF  THE  SPANISH  COPRIS 

emnly  she  moves  about  on  the  still  shapeless  mass, 
climbs  up,  climbs  down,  turns  to  right  and  left,  above 
and  below,  touching  and  re-touching  with  unvarying 
patience.  Finally,  after  twenty-four  hours  of  this  work, 
the  piece  that  was  all  corners  has  become  a  perfect  sphere, 
the  size  of  a  plum.  There  in  her  cramped  studio,  with 
scarcely  room  to  move,  the  podgy  artist  has  completed 
her  work  without  once  shaking  it  on  its  base :  by  dint  of 
time  and  patience  she  has  obtained  the  exact  sphere  which 
her  clumsy  tools  and  her  confined  space  seemed  to  render 
impossible. 

For  a  long  time  she  continues  to  polish  up  the  globe 
with  affectionate  touches  of  her  foot,  but  at  last  she  is 
satisfied.  She  climbs  to  the  top,  and  by  simple  pressure 
hollows  out  a  shallow  cavity.  In  this  basin  she  lays 
an  egg. 

Then,  with  extreme  caution  and  delicacy,  she  brings 
together  the  sides  of  the  basin  so  as  to  cover  the  egg,  and 
carefully  scrapes  the  sides  towards  the  top,  which  begins 
to  taper  a  little  and  lengthen  out.  In  the  end  the  ball 
has  become  ovoid,  or  egg-shaped. 

The  insect  next  helps  herself  to  a  second  piece  of  the 
cut  loaf,  which  she  treats  in  the  same  way.  The  remain- 
der serves  for  a  third  ovoid,  or  even  a  fourth.  The 
Sacred  Beetle,  you  remember,  made  a  single  pear-shaped 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

nest  in  a  way  that  was  familiar  to  her,  and  then  left  her 
egg  underground  while  she  engaged  in  fresh  enterprises. 
The  Copris  behaves  very  differently. 

Her  burrow  is  almost  filled  by  three  or  four  ovoid 
nests,  standing  one  against  the  other,  with  the  pointed 
end  upwards.  After  her  long  fast  one  would  expect  her 
to  go  away,  like  the  Sacred  Beetle,  in  search  of  food. 
On  the  contrary,  however,  she  stays  where  she  is.  And 
yet  she  has  eaten  nothing  since  she  came  underground, 
for  she  has  taken  good  care  not  to  touch  the  food  prepared 
for  her  family.  She  will  go  hungry  rather  than  let  her 
grubs  suffer. 

Her  object  in  staying  is  to  mount  guard  over  the 
cradles.  The  pear  of  the  Sacred  Beetle  suffers  from  the 
mother's  desertion.  It  soon  shows  cracks,  and  becomes 
scaly  and  swollen.  After  a  time  it  loses  its  shape.  But 
the  nest  of  the  Copris  remains  perfect,  owing  to  the 
mother's  care.  She  goes  from  one  to  the  other,  feels 
them,  listens  to  them,  and  touches  them  up  at  points 
where  my  eye  can  detect  no  flaw.  Her  clumsy  horn-shod 
foot  is  more  sensitive  in  the  darkness  than  my  sight  in 
broad  daylight :  she  feels  the  least  threatening  of  a  crack 
and  attends  to  it  at  once,  lest  the  air  should  enter  and 
dry  up  her  eggs.  She  slips  in  and  out  of  the  narrow 
spaces  between  the  cradles,  inspecting  them  with  the 
utmost  care.  If  I  disturb  her  she  sometimes  rubs  the 


THE  SPANISH  COPRIS 

The  burrow  is  almost  filled  by  three  or  four  ovoid  nests,  stand- 
ing one  against  the  other,  ivith  the  pointed  end  upwards 


•    '.  v.  >  ;  •-,'•  •:•  ',v  \:. 

'<  ISO  n«<5  VlVT 

,A>n  •JNo'^m 

r  burrox  :<>st  filk 

j^ts,  standing  one  against  the  cti; 
end  upwards.    After  her  long  fast  one  v 
to  go  away,  like  the  Sacred  Beetle,  in  search  «#  foo A 
On'tl*  contrary,  however,  she  stays  where  she  i*. 
vet  -he  has  eaten  nothing  since  she  came  undergo 
{or  ,he  has  taken  good  care  not  to  touch  the  food  prepare 
for  her  family.     She  will  go  hungry  rather  than  let  her 

prubs  suffer. 

}\>-r  obicct.  in  staying  is  to  mount  guard  over  the 
cradles.     The  pear  of  the  Sacred  Beetle  suffers  from  the 
jv.'-cher  s  desertion.     It  soon  shows  cracks,  and  becomes 
soly  and  swollen.     After  a  time  it  loses  its  shape.     But 
tbt  "nest  of  the  Coprs  remains  perfect,  owing  to  the 
manor's  care.     She  goes  from  one  to  the  other,  feels 
rn«t>    listens  to  them,  and  touches  them  up  at  points 
*h«r  my  eye  can  detect  no  flaw.     Her  clumsy  horn-shod 
foot  is  more  sensitive  in  -the  darkness  than  my  sight  m 
hn*d  dayJight :  she  feels  the  least  threatening  of  a  c 
>nd  attend*  to  it  at  once,  lest  the  air  should  enter  and 
Ay  up  hrr  eggs,     She  slips  in  and  out  of  the  namr 
*iwi  between  the  tratiles,  inspecting  them  wrt 
«'«e»t  care.    If  I  disturb  her  she  someunv 


SELF-DENIAL  OF  THE  SPANISH  COPRIS 

tip  of  her  body  against  the  edge  of  her  wing-cases,  making 
a  soft  rustling  sound,  like  a  murmur  of  complaint.  In 
this  way,  caring  industriously  for  her  cradles,  and  some- 
times snatching  a  brief  sleep  beside  them  the  mother 
waits. 

The  Copris  enjoys  in  her  underground  home  a  rare 
privilege  for  an  insect:  the  pleasure  of  knowing  her 
family.  She  hears  her  grubs  scratching  at  the  shell  to 
obtain  their  liberty;  she  is  present  at  the  bursting  of  the 
nest  which  she  has  made  so  carefully.  And  when  the 
little  captive,  stiffening  his  legs  and  humping  his  back, 
tries  to  split  the  ceiling  that  presses  down  on  him,  it  is 
quite  possible  that  the  mother  comes  to  his  assistance 
by  making  an  assault  on  the  nest  from  the  outside. 
Being  fitted  by  instinct  for  repairing  and  building,  why 
should  she  not  also  be  fitted  for  demolishing?  How- 
ever, I  will  make  no  assertions,  for  I  have  been  unable 
to  see. 

Now  it  is  possible  to  say  that  the  mother  Copris, 
being  imprisoned  in  an  enclosure  from  which  she  cannot 
escape,  stays  in  the  midst  of  her  nest  because  she  has  no 
choice  in  the  matter.  Yet,  if  this  were  so,  would  she 
trouble  about  her  work  of  polishing  and  constant  in- 
spection? These  cares  evidently  are  natural  to  her: 
they  form  part  of  her  habits.  If  she  were  anxious  to 
regain  her  liberty,  she  would  surely  roam  restlessly  round 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

the  enclosure,  whereas  I  always  see  her  very  quiet  and 
absorbed. 

To  make  certain,  I  have  inspected  my  glass  jars  at 
different  times.  She  could  go  lower  down  in  the  sand 
and  hide  anywhere  she  pleased,  if  rest  were  what  she 
wanted;  she  could  climb  outside  and  sit  down  to  fresh 
food,  if  refreshment  became  necessary.  Neither  the 
prospect  of  rest  in  a  deeper  cave  nor  the  thought  of  the 
sun  and  of  food  -makes  her  leave  her  family.  Until  the 
last  of  them  has  burst  his  shell  she  sticks  to  her  post. 
I  always  find  her  beside  her  cradles. 

For  four  months  she  is  without  food  of  any  kind. 
She  was  no  better  than  a  glutton  at  first,  when  there  was 
no  family  to  consider,  but  now  she  becomes  self-denying 
to  the  point  of  prolonged  fasting.  The  Hen  sitting  on 
her  eggs  forgets  to  eat  for  some  weeks;  the  watchful 
Copris  mother  forgets  food  for  a  third  part  of  the  year. 

The  summer  is  over.  The  rains  so  greatly  desired 
by  man  and  beast  have  come  at  last,  soaking  the  ground 
to  some  depth.  After  the  torrid  and  dusty  days  of  our 
Provencal  summer,  when  life  is  in  suspense,  we  have 
the  coolness  that  revives  it.  The  heath  puts  out  its 
first  pink  bells;  the  autumnal  squill  lifts  its  little  spike 
of  lilac  flowers;  the  strawberry-tree's  coral  bells  begin 
to  soften;  the  Sacred  Beetle  and  the  Copris  burst  their 

[us] 


SELF-DENIAL  OF  THE  SPANISH  COPRIS 

shells,  and  come  to  the  surface  in  time  to  enjoy  the  last 
fine  weather  of  the  year. 

The  newly  released  Copris  family,  accompanied  by 
their  mother,  gradually  emerge  from  underground. 
There  are  three  or  four  of  them,  five  at  most.  The 
sons  are  easily  recognised  by  the  greater  length  of  their 
horns;  but  there  is  nothing  to  distinguish  the  daughters 
from  the  mother.  For  that  matter,  the  same  confusion 
exists  among  themselves.  An  abrupt  change  has  taken 
place.  The  mother  whose  devotion  was  lately  so  remark- 
able is  now  utterly  indifferent  to  the  welfare  of  her 
family.  Henceforward  each  looks  after  his  own  home 
and  his  own  interests.  They  no  longer  have  anything 
to  do  with  one  another. 

The  present  indifference  of  the  mother  Beetle  must 
not  make  us  forget  the  wonderful  care  she  has  lavished 
for  four  months  on  end.  Except  among  the  Bees, 
Wasps,  and  Ants,  who  spoon-feed  their  young  and  bring 
them  up  with  every  attention  to  their  health,  I  know  of 
no  other  such  case  of  maternal  self-denial.  Alone  and 
unaided  she  provides  each  of  her  children  with  a  cake  of 
food,  whose  crust  she  constantly  repairs,  so  that  it  be- 
comes the  safest  of  cradles.  So  intense  is  her  affection 
that  she  loses  all  desire  and  need  of  food.  In  the  dark- 
ness of  the  burrow  she  watches  over  her  brood  for  four 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

months,  attending  to  the  wants  of  the  egg,  the  grub,  the 
undeveloped  Beetle,  and  the  full-grown  insect.  She 
does  not  return  to  the  glad  outer  life  till  all  her  family 
are  free.  Thus  we  see  one  of  the  most  brilliant  exam- 
ples of  maternal  instinct  in  a  humble  scavenger  of  the 
fields.  The  Spirit  breatheth  where  He  will. 


[120] 


CHAPTER  IX 

TWO  STRANGE  GRASSHOPPERS 

I 
THE  EMPUSA 

THE  sea,  where  life  first  appeared,  still  preserves 
in   its   depths  many  of  those  curious  shapes 
which  were  the  earliest  specimens  of  the  ani- 
mal kingdom.     But  the  land  has  almost  entirely  lost 
the  strange  forms  of  other  days.     The  few  that  remain 
are  mostly  insects.     One  of  these  is  the  Praying  Mantis, 
whose   remarkable  shape   and   habits   I   have   already 
described  to  you.     Another  is  the  Empusa. 

This  insect,  in  its  undeveloped  or  larval  state,  is 
certainly  the  strangest  creature  in  all  Provence :  a  sli«n, 
swaying  thing  of  so  fantastic  an  appearance  that  unaccus- 
tomed fingers  dare  not  lay  hold  of  it.  The  children  of 
my  neighbourhood  are  so  much  impressed  by  its  startling 
shape  that  they  call  it  "the  Devilkin."  They  imagine 
it  to  be  in  some  way  connected  with  witchcraft.  One 
comes  across  it,  though  never  in  great  numbers,  in  the 
spring  up  to  May;  in  autumn;  and  sometimes  in 
winter  if  the  sun  be  strong.  The  tough  grasses  of  the 

[121] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

waste-lands,  the  stunted  bushes  which  catch  the  sun- 
shine and  are  sheltered  from  the  wind  by  a  few  heaps  of 
stones,  are  the  chilly  Empusa's  favourite  dwelling. 

I  will  tell  you,  as  well  as  I  can,  what  she  looks  like. 
.The  tail-end  of  her  body  is  always  twisted  and  curved 
up  over  her  back  so  as  to  form  a  crook,  and  the  lower 
surface  of  her  body  (that  is  to  say,  of  course,  the  upper 
surface  of  the  crook)  is  covered  with  pointed,  leaf-shaped 
scales,  arranged  in  three  rows.  The  crook  is  propped 
on  four  long,  thin  legs,  like  stilts ;  and  on  each  of  these 
legs,  at  the  point  where  the  thigh  joins  the  shin,  is  a 
curved,  projecting  blade  not  unlike  that  of  a  cleaver. 

In  front  of  this  crook  on  stilts,  this  four-legged  stool, 
there  rises  suddenly — very  long  and  almost  perpendicu- 
lar— the  stiff  corselet  or  bust.  It  is  round  and  slender 
as  a  straw,  and  at  the  end  of  it  is  the  hunting-trap,  copied 
from  that  of  the  Mantis.  This  consists  of  a  harpoon 
sharper  than  a  needle,  and  a  cruel  vice  with  jaws  toothed 
like  a  saw.  The  jaw,  or  blade  formed  by  the  upper  arm, 
is  hollowed  into  a  groove  and  carries  five  long  spikes 
on  each  side,  with  smaller  indentations  in  between. 
The  jaw  formed  by  the  fore-arm  is  grooved  in  the  same 
way,  but  the  teeth  are  finer,  closer,  and  more  regular. 
When  at  rest,  the  saw  of  the  fore-arm  fits  into  the  groove 
of  the  upper  arm.  If  the  machine  were  only  larger  it 
would  be  a  fearful  instrument  of  torture. 

[122] 


TWO  STRANGE  GRASSHOPPERS 

The  head  is  in  keeping  with  this  arsenal.  What  a 
queer  head  it  is!  A  pointed  face,  with  curled  mous- 
taches; large  .goggle  eyes;  between  them  the  blade  of  a 
dirk;  and  on  the  forehead  a  mad,  unheard-of  thing — a 
sort  of  tall  mitre,  an  extravagant  head-dress  that  juts 
forward,  spreading  right  and  left  into  peaked  wings. 
What  does  the  Devilkin  want  with  that  monstrous 
pointed  cap,  as  magnificent  as  any  ever  worn  by  astrol- 
oger of  old?  The  use  of  it  will  appear  presently. 

The  creature's  colouring  at  this  time  is  commonplace — 
chiefly  grey.  As  it  develops  it  becomes  faintly  striped 
with  pale  green,  white,  and  pink. 

If  you  come  across  this  fantastic  object  in  the  bramble- 
bushes,  it  sways  upon  its  four  stilts,  it  wags  its  head 
at  you  knowingly,  it  twists  its  mitre  round  and  peers 
over  its  shoulder.  You  seem  to  see  mischief  in  its 
pointed  face.  But  if  you  try  to  take  hold  of  it  this 
threatening  attitude  disappears  at  once;  the  raised 
corselet  is  lowered,  and  the  creature  makes  off  with 
mighty  strides,  helping  itself  along  with  its  weapons, 
with  which  it  clutches  the  twigs.  If  you  have  a  prac- 
ticed eye,  however,  the  Empusa  is  easily  caught,  and 
penned  in  a  cage  of  wire-gauze. 

At  first  I  was  uncertain  how  to  feed  them.  My  Devil- 
kins  were  very  little,  a  month  or  two  old  at  most.  I  gave 
them  Locusts  suited  to  their  size,  the  smallest  I 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

could  find.  They  not  only  refused  them,  but  were 
afraid  of  them.  Any  thoughtless  Locust  that  meekly 
approached  an  Empusa  met  with  a  bad  reception.  The 
pointed  mitre  was  lowered,  and  an  angry  thrust  sent  the 
Locust  rolling.  The  wizard's  cap,  then,  is  a  defensive 
weapon.  As  the  Ram  charges  with  his  forehead,  so  the 
Empusa  butts  with  her  mitre. 

I  next  offered  her  a  live  House-fly,  and  this  time  the 
dinner  was  accepted  at  once.  The  moment  the  Fly  came 
within  reach  the  watchful  Devilkin  turned  her  head,  bent 
her  corselet  slantwise,  harpooned  the  Fly,  and  gripped  it 
between  her  two  saws.  No  Cat  could  pounce  more 
quickly  on  a  Mouse. 

To  my  surprise  I  found  that  the  Fly  was  not  only 
enough  for  a  meal,  but  enough  for  the  whole  day,  and 
often  for  several  days.  These  fierce-looking  insects  are 
extremely  abstemious.  I  was  expecting  them  to  be  ogres, 
and  found  them  with  the  delicate  appetites  of  invalids. 
After  a  time  even  a  Midge  failed  to  tempt  them,  and 
through  the  winter  months  they  fasted  altogether. 
When  the  spring  came,  however,  they  were  ready  to  in- 
dulge in  a  small  piece  of  Cabbage  Butterfly  or  Locust; 
attacking  their  prey  invariably  in  the  neck,  like  the 
Mantis. 

The  young  Empusa  has  one  very  curious  habit  when  in 
captivity.  In  its  cage  of  wire-gauze  its  attitude  is  the 


TWO  STRANGE  GRASSHOPPERS 

same  from  first  to  last,  and  a  most  strange  attitude  it  is. 
It  grips  the  wire  by  the  claws  of  its  four  hind-legs,  and 
hangs  motionless,  back  downwards,  with  the  whole  of  its 
body  suspended  from  those  four  points.  If  it  wishes  to 
move,  its  harpoons  open  in  front,  stretch  out,  grasp  a 
mesh  of  the  wire,  and  pull.  This  process  naturally 
draws  the  insect  along  the  wire,  still  upside  down. 
Then  the  jaws  close  back  against  the  chest. 

And  this  upside-down  position,  which  seems  to  us  so 
trying,  lasts  for  no  short  while.  It  continues,  in  my 
cages,  for  ten  months  without  a  break.  The  Fly  on  the 
ceiling,  it  is  true,  adopts  the  same  position;  but  she  has 
her  moments  of  rest.  She  flies,  she  walks  in  the  usual 
way,  she  spreads  herself  flat  in  the  sun.  The  Empusa, 
on  the  other  hand,  remains  in  her  curious  attitude  for  ten 
months  on  end,  without  a  pause.  Hanging  from  the 
wire  netting,  back  downwards,  she  hunts,  eats,  digests, 
dozes,  gets  through  all  the  experiences  of  an  insect's  life, 
and  finally  dies.  She  clambers  up  while  she  is  still  quite 
young ;  she  falls  down  in  her  old  age,  a  corpse. 

This  custom  is  all  the  more  remarkable  in  that  it  is 
practised  only  in  captivity.  It  is  not  an  instinctive 
habit  of  the  race;  for  out  of  doors  the  insect,  except  at 
rare  intervals,  stands  on  the  bushes  back  upwards. 

Strange  as  the  performance  is,  I  know  of  a  similar  case 
that  is  even  more  peculiar:  the  attitude  of  certain 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

Wasps  and  Bees  during  the  night's  rest.  A  particular 
Wasp,  an  Ammophila  with  red  fore-legs,  is  plentiful  in 
my  enclosure  towards  the  end  of  August,  and  likes  to 
sleep  in  one  of  the  lavender  borders.  At  dusk,  espe- 
cially after  a  stifling  day  when  a  storm  is  brewing,  I  am 
sure  to  find  the  strange  sleeper  settled  there.  Never  was 
a  more  eccentric  attitude  chosen  for  a  night's  rest.  The 
jaws  bite  right  into  the  lavender-stem.  Its  square  shape 
supplies  a  firmer  hold  than  a  round  stalk  would  give. 
With  this  one  and  only  prop  the  Wasp's  body  juts  out 
stiffly  at  full  length,  with  legs  folded.  It  forms  a  right 
angle  with  the  stalk,  so  that  the  whole  weight  of  the  in- 
sect rests  upon  the  mandibles. 

The  Ammophila  is  enabled  by  its  mighty  jaws  to  sleep 
in  this  way,  extended  in  space.  It  takes  an  animal  to 
think  of  a  thing  like  that,  which  upsets  all  our  previous 
ideas  of  rest.  Should  the  threatening  storm  burst  and 
the  stalk  sway  in  the  wind,  the  sleeper  is  not  troubled  by 
her  swinging  hammock ;  at  most,  she  presses  her  fore-legs 
for  a  moment  against  the  tossing  stem.  Perhaps  the 
Wasp's  "jaws,  like  the  Bird's  toes,  possess  the  power  of 
gripping  more  tightly  in  proportion  to  the  violence  of  the 
wind.  However  that  may  be,  there  are  several  kinds  of 
Wasps  and  Bees  who  adopt  this  strange  position, — grip- 
ping a  stalk  with  their  maadibles,  and  sleeping  with  their 
bodies  outstreched  and  their  legs  folded  back.  This 


TWO  -STRANGE  GRASSHOPPERS 

state  of  things  makes  us  wonder  what  it  is  that  really  con- 
stitutes rest. 

About  the  middle  of  May  the  Empusa  is  transformed 
into  her  full-grown  condition.  She  is  even  more  re- 
markable in  figure  and  attire  than  the  Praying  Mantis. 
She  still  keeps  some  of  her  youthful  eccentricities — the 
bust,  the  weapons  on  her  knees,  and  the  three  rows  of 
scales  on  the  lower  surface  of  her  body.  But  she  is  now 
no  longer  twisted  into  a  crook,  and  is  comelier  to  look 
upon.  Large  pale-green  wings,  pink  at  the  shoulder  and 
swift  in  flight,  cover  the  white  and  green  stripes  that  orn- 
ament the  body  below.  The  male  Empusa,  who  is  a 
dandy,  adorns  himself,  like  some  of  the  Moths,  with 
feathery  antennae. 

When,  in  the  spring,  the  peasant  meets  the  Empusa, 
he  thinks  he  sees  the  common  Praying  Mantis,  who  is  a 
daughter  of  the  autumn.  They  are  so  much  alike  that 
one  would  expect  them  to  have  the  same  habits.  In  fact, 
any  one  might  be  tempted,  led  away  by  the  extraordinary 
armour,  to  suspect  the  Empusa  of  a  mode  of  life  even 
more  atrocious  than  that  of  the  Mantis.  This  would 
be  a  mistake :  for  all  their  war-like  aspect  the  Empusse 
are  peaceful  creatures. 

Imprisoned  in  their  wire-gauze  bell-jar,  either  in 
groups  of  half  a  dozen  or  in  separate  couples,  they  at  no 
time  lose  their  placidity.  Even  in  their  full-grown  state 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

they  are  very  small  eaters,  and  content  themselves  with 

a  fly  or  two  as  their  daily  ration. 

Big  eaters  are  naturally  quarrelsome.  The  Mantis, 
gorged  with  Locusts,  soon  becomes  irritated  and  shows 
fight.  The  Empusa,  with  her  frugal  meals,  is  a  lover  of 
peace.  She  indulges  in  no  quarrels  with  her  neighbours, 
nor  does  she  pretend  to  be  a  ghost,  with  a  view  to 
frightening  them,  after  the  manner  of  the  Mantis.  She 
never  unfurls  her  wings  suddenly  nor  puffs  like  a 
startled  Adder.  She  has  never  the  least  inclination  for 
the  cannibal  banquets  at  which  a  sister,  after  being 
worsted  in  a  fight,  is  eaten  up.  Nor  does  she,  like  the 
Mantis,  devour  her  husband.  Such  atrocities  are  here 
unknown. 

The  organs  of  the  two  insects  are  the  same.  These 
profound  moral  differences,  therefore,  are  not  due  to 
any  difference  in  the  bodily  form.  Possibly  they  may 
arise  from  the  difference  in  food.  Simple  living,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  softens  character,  in  animals  as  in  men; 
over-feeding  brutalises  it.  The  glutton,  gorged  with 
meat  and  strong  drink — a  very  common  cause  of  savage 
outbursts — could  never  be  as  gentle  as  the  self-denying 
hermit  who  lives  on  bread  dipped  into  a  cup  of  milk. 
The  Mantis  is  a  glutton:  the  Empusa  lives  the  simple 
life. 

And  yet,  even  when  this  is  granted,  one  is  forced  to 


TWO  STRANGE  GRASSHOPPERS 

ask  a  further  question.  Why,  when  the  two  insects  are 
almost  exactly  the  same  in  form,  and  might  be  expected 
to  have  the  same  needs,  should  the  one  have  an  enormous 
appetite  and  the  other  such  temperate  ways?  They 
tell  us,  in  their  own  fashion,  what  many  insects  have 
told  us  already :  that  inclinations  and  habits  do  not  de- 
pend entirely  upon  anatomy.  High  above  the  laws  that 
govern  matter  rise  other  laws  that  govern  instincts. 

II 

THE  WHITE-FACED  DECTICUS 

The  White-faced  Decticus  stands  at  the  head  of  the 
Grasshopper  clan  in  my  district,  both  as  a  singer  and  as 
an  insect  of  imposing  presence.  He  has  a  grey  body, 
a  pair  of  powerful  mandibles,  and  a  broad  ivory  face. 
Without  being  plentiful,  he  is  neither  difficult  nor  weari- 
some to  hunt.  In  the  height  of  summer  we  find  him 
hopping  in  the  long  grass,  especially  at  the  foot  of  the 
sunny  rocks  where  the  turpentine-tree  takes  root. 

The  Greek  word  dectikos  means  biting,  fond  of  biting. 
The  Decticus  is  well  named.  It  is  eminently  an  insect 
given  to  biting.  Mind  your  finger  if  this  sturdy  Grass- 
hopper gets  hold  of  it :  he  will  rip  it  till  the  blood  comes. 
His  powerful  jaw,  of  which  I  have  to  beware  when  I 
handle  him,  and  the  large  muscles  that  swell  out  his 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

cheeks,  are  evidently  intended  for  cutting  up  leathery 
prey. 

I  find,  when  the  Decticus  is  imprisoned  in  my 
menagerie,  that  any  fresh  meat  tasting  of  Locust  or 
Grasshopper  suits  his  needs.  The  blue-winged  Locust 
is  the  most  frequent  victim.  'As  soon  as  the  food  is 
introduced  into  the  cage  there  is  an  uproar,  especially 
if  the  Dectici  are  hungry.  They  stamp  about,  and  dart 
forward  clumsily,  being  hampered  by  their  long  shanks. 
Some  of  the  Locusts  are  caught  at  once,  but  others  with 
desperate  bounds  rush  to  the  top  of  the  cage,  and  there 
hang  on  out  of  the  reach  of  the  Grasshopper,  who  is  too 
stout  to  climb  so  'high.  But  they  have  only  postponed 
their  fate.  Either  because  they  are  tired,  or  because 
they  are  tempted  by  the  green  stuff  below,  they  will 
come  down,  and  the  Dectici  will  be  after  them  im- 
mediately. 

This  Grasshopper,  though  his  intellect  is  dull,  pos- 
sesses the  art  of  scientific  killing  of  which  we  have  seen 
instances  elsewhere.  He  always  spears  his  prey  in  the 
neck,  and,  to  make  it  helpless  as  quickly  as  possible, 
begins  by  biting  the  nerves  that  enable  it  to  move.  It 
is  a  very  wise  method,  for  the  Locust  is  hard  to  kill. 
Even  when  beheaded  he  goes  on  hopping.  I  'have  seen 
some  who,  though  half-eaten,  kicked  out  so  desperately 
that  they  succeeded  in  escaping. 

[130] 


THE  WHITE-FACED  DECTICUS 

The  Greek  word  dectikos  means  biting,  fond  of  biting.     The 

•Decticus  is  well  named.    It  is  eminently  an  insect  given 

to  biting 


»K  OF 

vWN  'i, 
'MVI     .\iwi\vd  \o  buo\  , \MVV\\O  ww^w  wJuVy^  W 

vnvsiv}  \:mm  uo  y;\VjrmVws  ?-*  ^    •hswoN  \bw  i'j  i\n\tis(l 
.    when  H&tfJ!  °1s    impr   .  ny 

menagerie,  that -any  fresh  meat  tasting  of  Lucm 
Grasshopper  suits  his  needs.  The  blue-winged  -Locusc 
15  the  most  frequent  victim.  'As  soon  as  the  food  is 
introduced  into  the  cage  there  is  an  uproar,  especially 
if  the  Dectici  are  hungry.  They  stamp  about,  and  dart 
forward  clumsily,  being  hampered  by  their  long  shanks. 
Some  of:  the  Locusts  are  caught  at  once,  but  others  with 
desperate  boimcb  rash  to  rhe  top  of  the  cage,  and  there 
hjing  -*>n  out  ol  the  reach  ot  the  Grasshopper,  who  is  too 
*  'high,  iku  they  have  only  postponed 
hue.  KniuT  because  they  are  tired,  or  because 

sev  ,'ut  t.empted  by  the  green  srutf  below,  they  will 
uxwr  <k>v/n,  and  the  Dectici  will.  IK  aft^r  them  im- 
mediatejy. 

This  Grasshopper,  though  his  intellect  is  dull,  pos- 
scs^s  rht-  art  of  scientinc  killing  of  which  we  have  seen 
instances  elsewhere.  He  always  spears  his  prey  in  the 
neck,  and  TO  make  it  helpless  as  quickly  as  possible, 
begins  by  ^  r;^;g  the  nerves  that  enable  it  to  move.  It 
is.  a  very  wt**  method,  for  the  Locust  is  hard  to  kill. 

vcn  wl»cu  liitheaded  he  goes  on  hopping.     I  have 
sonsje  who,  though  hiilf-eaf^n,  kicked  out  so 
that  they  succeeded  in 


TWO  STRANGE  GRASSHOPPERS 

With  his  weakness  for  Locusts,  and  also  for  certain 
seeds  that  are  harmful  to  unripe  corn,  these  Grasshoppers 
might  be  of  some  service  to  agriculture  if  only  there  were 
more  of  them.  But  nowadays  his  assistance  in  preserv- 
ing the  fruits  of  the  earth  is  very  feeble.  His  chief 
interest  in  our  eyes  is  the  fact  that  he  is  a  memorial  of 
the  remotest  times.  He  gives  us  a  vague  glimpse  of 
habits  now  out  of  use. 

It  was  thanks  to  the  Decticus  that  I  first  learnt  one 
or  two  things  about  young  Grasshoppers. 

Instead  of  packing  their  eggs  in  casks  of  hardened 
foam,  like  the  Locust  and  the  Mantis,  or  laying  them 
in  a  twig  like  the  Cicada,  Grasshoppers  plant  them  like 
seeds  in  the  earth. 

The  mother  Decticus  has  a  tool  at  the  end  of  her 
body  with  which  she  scrapes  out  a  little  hole  in  the  soil. 
In  this  hole  she  lays  a  certain  number  of  eggs,  then 
loosens  the  dust  round  the  side  of  the  hole  and  rams  it 
down  with  her  tool,  very  much  as  we  should  pack  the 
earth  in  a  hole  with  a  stick.  In  this  way  she  covers  up 
the  well,  and  then  sweeps  and  smooths  the  ground  above 
it. 

She  then  goes  for  a  little  walk  in  the  neighbourhood, 
by  way  of  recreation.  Soon  she  comes  back  to  the  place 
where  she  has  already  laid  her  eggs,  and,  very  near  the 
original  spot,  which  she  recognises  quite  well,  begins  the 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

work  afresh.  If  I  watch  her  for  an  hour  I  see  her  go 
through  this  whole  performance,  including  the  short 
stroll  in  the  neighbourhood,  no  less  than  five  times.  The 
points  where  she  lays  the  eggs  are  always  very  close 
together. 

When  everything  is  finished  I  examine  the  little  pits. 
The  eggs  lie  singly,  without  any  cell  or  sheath  to  protect 
them.  There  are  about  sixty  of  them  altogether,  pale 
lilac-grey  in  colour,  and  shaped  like  a  shuttle. 

When  I  began  to  observe  the  ways  of  the  Decticus 
I  was  anxious  to  watch  the  hatching,  so  at  the  end  of 
August  I  gathered  plenty  of  eggs,  and  placed  them  in 
a  small  glass  jar  with  a  layer  of  sand.  Without  suffer- 
ing any  apparent  change  they  spent  eight  months  there 
under  cover,  sheltered  from  the  frosts,  the  showers,  and 
the  overpowering  heat  of  the  sun,  which  they  would  be 
obliged  to  endure  out  of  doors. 

When  June  came,  the  eggs  in  my  jar  showed  no  sign 
of  being  about  to  hatch.  They  were  just  as  I  had 
gathered  them  nine  months  before,  neither  wrinkled  nor 
tarnished,  but  on  the  contrary  wearing  a  most  healthy 
look.  Yet  in  June  young  Dectici  are  often  to  be  met 
in  the  fields,  and  sometimes  even  those  of  larger  growth. 
What  was  the  reason  of  this  delay,  I  wondered. 

Then  an  idea  came  to  me.  The  eggs  of  the  Grass- 
hopper are  planted  like  seeds  in  the  earth,  were  they  are 


TWO  STRANGE  GRASSHOPPERS 

exposed,  without  any  protection,  to  snow  and  rain. 
Those  in  my  jar  had  spent  two-thirds  of  the  year  in  a 
state  of  comparative  dryness.  Since  they  were  sown 
like  seeds,  perhaps  they  needed,  to  make  them  hatch, 
the  moisture  that  seeds  require  to  make  them  sprout. 
I  resolved  to  try. 

I  placed  at  the  bottom  of  some  glass  tubes  a  pinch 
of  backward  eggs  taken  from  my  collection,  and  on  the 
top  I  heaped  lightly  a  layer  of  fine,  damp  sand.  I  closed 
the  tubes  with  plugs  of  wet  cotton,  to  keep  the  air  in  them 
constantly  moist.  Any  one  seeing  my  preparations 
would  have  supposed  me  to  be  a  botanist  experimenting 
with  seeds. 

My  hopes  were  fulfilled.  In  the  warmth  and  mois- 
ture the  eggs  soon  showed  signs  of  hatching.  They 
began  to  swell,  and  the  bursting  of  the  shell  was  evi- 
dently close  at  hand.  I  spent  a  fortnight  in  keeping 
a  tedious  watch  at  every  hour  of  the  day,  for  I  had  to 
surprise  the  young  Decticus  actually  leaving  the  egg, 
in  order  to  solve  a  question  that  had  long  been  in  my 
mind. 

The  question  was  this.  The  Grasshopper  is  buried, 
as  a  rule,  about  an  inch  below  the  surface  of  the  soil. 
Now  the  new-born  Decticus,  hopping  awkwardly  in  the 
grass  at  the  approach  of  summer,  has,  like  the  full-grown 
insect,  a  pair  of  very  long  tentacles,  as  slender  as  hairs," 

[133] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

while  he  carries  behind  him  two  extraordinary  legs,  two 
enormous  hinged  jumping-poles  that  would  be  very  in- 
convenient for  ordinary  walking.  I  wished  to  find  out 
how  the  feeble  little  creature  set  to  work,  with  this 
cumbrous  luggage,  to  make  its  way  to  the  surface  of  the 
earth.  By  what  means  could  it  clear  a  passage  through 
the  rough  soil?  With  its  feathery  antennae,  which  an 
atom  of  sand  can  break,  and  its  immense  shanks,  which 
are  disjointed  by  the  least  effort,  this  mite  is  plainly 
incapable  of  freeing  itself. 

As  I  have  already  told  you,  the  Cicada  and  the 
Praying  Mantis,  when  issuing,  the  one  from  his  twig, 
and  the  other  from  his  nest,  wear  a  protective  covering 
like  an  overall.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  little  Grass- 
hopper, too,  must  come  out  through  the  sand  in  a  simpler, 
more  compact  form  than  he  wears  when  he  hops  about  the 
lawn  on  the  day  after  his  birth. 

Nor  was  I  mistaken.  The  Decticus,  like  the  others, 
wears  an  overall  for  the  occasion.  The  tiny,  flesh-white 
creature  is  cased  in  a  scabbard  which  keeps  the  six  legs 
flattened  against  the  body,  stretching  backwards,  inert. 
In  order  to  slip  more  easily  through  the  soil  his  shanks 
are  tied  up  beside  him;  while  the  antennas,  those  other 
inconvenient  appendages,  are  pressed  motionless  against 
the  parcel. 

The  head  is  very  much  bent  against  the  chest.     With 
[134] 


TWO  STRANGE  GRASSHOPPERS 

the  big  black  specks  that  are  going  to  be  its  eyes,  and  its 
inexpressive,  rather  swollen  mask,  it  suggests  a  diver's 
helmet.  The  neck  opens  wide  at  the  back,  and,  with  a 
slow  throbbing,  by  turns  swells  and  sinks.  It  is  by 
means  of  this  throbbing  protrusion  through  the  opening  at 
the  back  of  the  head  that  the  new-born  insect  moves. 
When  the  lump  is  flat,  the  head  pushes  back  the  damp 
sand  a  little  way  and  slips  into  it  by  digging  a  tiny  pit. 
Then  the  swelling  is  blown  out  and  becomes  a  knob 
which  sticks  firmly  in  the  hole.  This  supplies  the  re- 
sistance necessary  for  the  grub  to  draw  up  its  back  and 
push.  Thus  a  step  forward  is  made.  Each  thrust  of 
the  motor-blister  helps  the  little  Decticus  upon  the  up- 
ward path. 

It  is  pitiful  to  see  this  tender  creature,  still  almost 
colourless,  knocking  with  its  swollen  neck  and  ramming 
the  rough  soil.  With  flesh  that  is  not  yet  hardened  it 
is  painfully  fighting  stone;  and  fighting  it  so  success- 
fully that  in  the  space  of  a  morning  it  makes  a  gallery, 
either  straight  or  winding,  an  inch  long  and  as  wide  as 
an  average  straw.  In  this  way  the  harassed  insect 
reaches  the  surface. 

Before  it  is  altogether  freed  from  the  soil  the  struggler 
halts  for  a  moment,  to  recover  from  the  effects  of  the 
journey.  Then,  with  renewed  strength,  it  makes  a  last 
effort:  it  swells  the  protrusion  at  the  back  of  its  head  as 

[1351 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

far  as  it  will  go,  and  bursts  the  sheath  that  has  protected 
it  so  far.     The  creature  throws  off  its  overall. 

Here,  then,  is  the  Decticus  in  his  youthful  shape, 
quite  pale  still,  but  darker  the  next  day,  and  a  regular 
blackamoor  compared  with  the  full-grown  insect.  As  a 
prelude  to  the  ivory  face  of  his  riper  age  he  wears  a 
narrow  white  stripe  under  his  hinder  thighs. 

Little  Decticus,  hatched  before  my  eyes,  life  opens 
for  you  very  harshly!  Many  of  your  relatives  must  die 
of  exhaustion  before  winning  their  freedom.  In  my 
tubes  I  see  numbers  who,  being  stopped  by  a  grain  of 
sand,  give  up  the  struggle  half-way  and  become  furred 
with  a  sort  of  silky  fluff.  Mildew  soon  absorbs  their 
poor  little  remains.  And  when  carried  out  without  my 
help,  their  journey  to  the  surface  must  be  even  more 
dangerous,  for  the  soil  out  of  doors  is  coarse  and  baked 
by  the  sun. 

The  little  white-striped  nigger  nibbles  at  the  lettuce- 
leaf  I  give  him,  and  leaps  about  gaily  in  the  cage  where 
I  have  housed  him.  I  could  easily  rear  him,  but  he 
would  not  teach  me  much  more.  So  I  restore  him  to 
liberty.  In  return  for  what  he  has  taught  me  I  give 
him  the  grass  and  the  Locusts  in  the  garden. 

For  he  taught  me  that  Grasshoppers,  in  order  to 
leave  the  ground  where  the  eggs  are  laid,  wear  a  tem- 
porary form  which  keeps  those  too  cumbrous  parts,  the 


TWO  STRANGE  GRASSHOPPERS 

long  legs  and  antennae,  swathed  together  in  a  sheath. 
He  taught  me,  too,  that  this  mummy-like  creature,  fit 
only  to  lengthen  and  shorten  itself  a  little,  has  for  its 
means  of  travelling  a  hernia  in  the  neck,  a  throbbing 
blister — an  original  piece  of  mechanism  which,  when  I 
first  observed  the  Decticus,  I  had  never  seen  used  as  an 
aid  to  progression. 


[137] 


CHAPTER  X 


COMMON  WASPS 


THEIR  CLEVERNESS  AND  STUPIDITY 

WISHING  to  observe  a  Wasp's  nest  I  go 
out,  one  day  in  September,  with  my 
little  son  Paul,  who  helps  me  with  his 
good  sight  and  his  undivided  attention.  We  look  with 
interest  at  the  edges  of  the  footpaths. 

Suddenly  Paul  cries:  "A  Wasp's  nest!  A  Wasp's 
nest,  as  sure  as  anything!"  For,  twenty  yards  away, 
he  has  seen  rising  from  the  ground,  shooting  up  and 
flying  away,  now  one  and  then  another  swiftly  moving 
object,  as  though  some  tiny  crater  in  the  grass  were 
hurling  them  forth. 

We  approach  the  spot  with  caution,  fearing  to  attract 
the  attention  of  the  fierce  creatures.  At  the  entrance- 
door  of  their  dwelling,  a  round  opening  large  enough  to 
admit  a  man's  thumb,  the  inmates  come  and  go,  busily 
passing  one  another  as  they  fly  in  opposite  directions. 
Burr!  A  shudder  runs  through  me  at  the  thought  of  the 
unpleasant  time  we  should  have,  did  we  incite  these 


COMMON  WASPS 

irritable  warriors  to  attack  us  by  inspecting  them  too 
closely.  Without  further  investigation,  which  might 
cost  us  too  dear,  we  mark  the  spot,  and  resolve  to  return 
at  nightfall.  By  that  time  all  the  inhabitants  of  the 
nest  will  have  come  home  from  the  fields. 

The  conquest  of  a  nest  of  Common  Wasps  would  be 
rather  a  serious  undertaking  if  one  did  not  act  with  a 
certain  amount  of  prudence.  Half  a  pint  of  petrol, 
a  reed-stump  nine  inches  long,  and  a  good-sized  lump 
of  clay  or  loam,  kneaded  to  the  right  consistency — such 
are  my  weapons,  which  I  have  come  to  consider  the  best 
and  simplest,  after  various  trials  with  less  successful 
means. 

The  suffocating  method  is  necessary,  unless  I  use  costly 
measures  which  I  cannot  afford.  When  Reaumur 
wanted  to  place  a  live  Wasp's  nest  in  a  glass  case  with  a 
view  to  observing  the  habits  of  the  inmates,  he  employed 
helpers  who  were  used  to  the  painful  job,  and  were 
willing,  for  a  handsome  reward,  to  serve  the  man  of 
science  at  the  cost  of  their  skins.  But  I,  who  should 
have  to  pay  with  my  own  skin,  think  twice  before  dig- 
ging up  the  nest  I  desire.  I  begin  by  suffocating  the 
inhabitants.  Dead  Wasps  do  not  sting.  It  is  a  brutal 
method,  but  perfectly  safe. 

I  use  petrol  because  its  effects  are  not  too  violent,  and 
in  order  to  make  my  observations  I  wish  to  leave  a  small 

[139] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

numjer  of  survivors.  The  question  is  how  to  intro- 
duce it  into  the  cavity  containing  the  Wasp's  nest.  A 
vestibule,  or  entrance-passage,  about  nine  inches  long, 
and  very  nearly  horizontal,  leads  to  the  underground 
cells.  To  pour  the  petrol  straight  into  the  mouths  of 
this  tunnel  would  be  a  blunder  that  might  have  serious 
consequences  later  on.  For  so  small  a  quantity  of  petrol 
would  be  absorbed  by  the  soil  and  would  never  reach 
the  nest;  and  next  day,  when  we  might  think  we  were 
digging  safely,  we  should  find  an  infuriated  swarm 
under  the  spade. 

'  The  bit  of  reed  prevents  this  mishap.  When  in- 
serted into  the  passage  it  forms  a  water-tight  funnel, 
and  carries  the  petrol  to  the  cavern  without  the  loss  of 
a  drop,  and  as  quickly  as  possible.  Then  we  fix  the 
lump  of  kneaded  clay  into  the  entrance-hole,  like  a 
stopper.  We  have  nothing  to  do  now  but  wait. 

When  we  are  going  to  perform  this  operation  Paul 
and  I  set  out,  carrying  a  lantern  and  a  basket  with  the 
implements,  at  nine  o'clock  on  some  mild,  moonlit 
evening.  While  the  farm-house  Dogs  are  yelping  at 
each  other  in  the  distance,  and  the  Screech  Owl  is  hooting 
in  the  olive-trees,  and  the  Italian  Crickets  are  performing 
their  symphony  in  the  bushes,  Paul  and  I  chat  about 
insects.  He  asks  questions,  eager  to  learn,  and  I  tell 

[140] 


COMMON  WASPS 

him  the  little  that  I  know.  So  delightful  are  our  nights 
of  Wasp-hunting  that  we  think  little  of  the  loss  of  sleep 
or  the  chance  of  being  stung! 

The  pushing  of  the  reed  into  the  hole  is  the  most 
delicate  matter.  Since  the  direction  of  the  passage  is 
unknown  there  is  some  hesitation,  and  sometimes  sentries 
come  flying  out  of  the  Wasp's  guard-house  to  attack  the 
operator's  hand.  To  prevent  this  one  of  us  keeps  watch, 
and  drives  away  the  enemy  with  a  handkerchief.  And 
after  all,  a  swelling  on  one's  hand,  even  if  it  does  smart, 
is  not  much  to  pay  for  an  idea. 

As  the  petrol  streams  into  the  cavern  we  hear  the 
threatening  buzz  of  the  population  underground.  Then 
quick ! — the  door  must  be  closed  with  the  wet  clay,  and 
the  clod  kicked  once  or  twice  with  the  heel  to  make  the 
stopper  solid.  There  is  .nothing  more  to  be  done  for 
the  present.  Off  we  go  to  bed. 

With  a  spade  and  a  trowel  we  are  back  on  the  spot  at 
dawn.  It  is  wise  to  be  early,  because  many  Wasps  will 
have  been  out  all  night,  and  will  want  to  get  into  their 
home  while  we  are  digging.  The  chill  of  the  morning 
will  make  them  less  fierce. 

In  frorit  of  the  entrance-passage,  in  which  the  reed 
is  still  sticking,  we  dig  a  trench  wide  enough  to  allow  us 
free  movement.  Then  the  side  of  this  ditch  is  carefully 

[Hi] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

cut  away,  slice  after  slice,  until,  at  a  depth  of  about: 
twenty  inches,  the  Wasp's  nest  is  revealed,  uninjured, 
slung  from  the  roof  of  a  spacious  cavity. 

It  is  indeed  a  superb  achievement,  as  large  as  a  fair- 
sized  pumpkin.  It  hangs  free  on  every  side  except  at 
the  top,  where  various  roots,  mostly  of  couch-grass,  pene- 
trate the  thickness  of  the  wall  and  fasten  the  nest  firmly. 
Its  shape  is  round  wherever  the  ground  has  been  soft, 
and  of  the  same  consistency  all  through.  In  stony  soil, 
where  the  Wasps  meet  with  obstacles  in  their  digging, 
the  sphere  becomes  more  or  less  misshapen. 

A  space  of  a  hand's-breadth  is  always  left  open  be- 
tween the  paper  nest  and  the  sides  of  the  underground 
vault.  This  space  is  the  wide  street  along  which  the 
builders  move  unhindered  at  their  continual  task  of 
enlarging  and  strengthening  the  nest,  and  the  passage 
that  leads  to  the  outer  world  opens  into  it.  Under- 
neath the  nest  is  a  much  larger  unoccupied  space, 
rounded  into  a  big  basin,  so  that  the  wrapper  of  the  nest 
can  be  enlarged  as  fresh  cells  are  added.  This  cavity 
also  serves  as  a  dust-bin  for  refuse. 

The  cavity  was  dug  by  the  Wasps  themselves.  Of 
that  there  is  no  doubt;  for  holes  so  large  and  so  regular 
do  not  exist  ready-made.  The  original  foundress  of  the 
nest  may  have  seized  on  some  cavity  made  by  a  Mole, 
to  help  her  at  the  beginning;  but  the  greater  part  of  the 

[142] 


COMMON  WASPS 

enormous  vault  was  the  work  of  the  Wasps.  Yet  there 
is  not  a  scrap  of  rubbish  outside  the  entrance.  Where 
is  the  mass  of  earth  that  has  been  removed*? 

It  has  been  spread  over  such  a  large  surface  of  ground 
that  it  is  unnoticed.  Thousands  and  thousands  of 
Wasps  work  at  digging  the  cellar,  and  enlarging  it  as 
that  becomes  necessary.  They  fly  up  to  the  outer  world, 
each  carrying  a  particle  of  earth,  which  they  drop  on  the 
ground  at  some  distance  from  the  nest,  in  all  directions. 
Being  scattered  in  this  way  the  earth  leaves  no  visible 
trace. 

The  Wasp's  nest  is  made  of  a  thin,  flexible  material 
like  brown  paper,  formed  of  particles  of  wood.  It  is 
streaked  with  bands,  of  which  the  colour  varies  according 
to  the  wood  used.  If  it  were  made  in  a  single  continu- 
ous sheet  it  would  give  little  protection  against  the  cold. 
But  the  Common  Wasp,  like  the  ballon-maker,  knows 
that  heat  may  be  preserved  by  means  of  a  cushion  of 
air  contained  by  several  wrappers.  So  she  makes  her 
paper-pulp  into  broad  scales,  which  overlap  loosely  and 
are  laid  on  in  numerous  layers.  The  whole  forms  a 
coarse  blanket,  thick  and  spongy  in  texture  and  well 
filled  with  stagnant  air.  The  temperature  under  this 
shelter  must  be  truly  tropical  in  hot  weather. 

The  fierce  Hornet,  chief  of  the  Wasps,  builds  her  nest 
on  the  same  principle.  In  the  hollow  of  a  willow,  or 

[H3] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

within  some  empty  granary,  she  makes,  out  of  fragments 
of  wood,  a  very  brittle  kind  of  striped  yellow  cardboard. 
Her  nest  is  wrapped  round  with  many  layers  of  this 
substance,  laid  on  in  the  form  of  broad  convex  scales 
which  are  welded  to  one  another.  Between  them  are 
wide  intervals  in  which  air  is  held  motionless. 

The  Wasp,  then,  often  acts  in  accordance  with  the 
laws  of  physics  and  geometry.  She  employs  air,  a  non- 
conductor of  heat,  to  keep  her  home  warm;  she  made 
blankets  before  man  thought  of  it;  she  builds  the  outer 
walls  of  the  nest  in  the  shape  that  gives  her  the  largest 
amount  'of  room  in  the  smallest  wrapper;  and  in  the 
form  of  her  cell,  too,  she  economises  space  and  material. 

And  yet,  clever  as  these  wonderful  architects  are,  they 
amaze  us  by  their  stupidity  in  the  face  of  the  smallest 
difficulty.  On  the  one  hand  their  instincts  teach  them 
to  behave  like  men  of  science ;  but  on  the  other  it  is  plain 
that  they  are  entirely  without  the  power  of  reflection. 
I  have  convinced  myself  of  this  fact  by  various  experi- 
ments. 

The  Common  Wasp  has  chanced  to  set  up  house  be- 
side one  of  the  walks  in  my  enclosure,  which  enables 
me  to  experiment  with  a  bell-glass.  In  the  open  fields 
I  could  not  use  this  appliance,  because  the  boys  of  the 
country-side  would  soon  smash  it.  One  night,  when  all 
was  dark  and  the  Wasps  had  gone  home,  I  placed  the 

[144] 


COMMON  WASPS 

The  Wasp's  nest  is  made  of  a  thin,  flexible  material  like  broicn 
paper,  formed  of  particles  of  zuood 


: 

'. 

oped  round 

form  of  hr**sr 
one  aii- 

?n  which  air  is  held  fft? 

Tbe  Wasp,  then,  often  acts  in  ;>-«>r  dance  with  the 
few*  of  pimk»  and  geoiiit:  <  v  :.      S:  air,  a  non- 

of  h«»at    to  keep  her  b*xm  warm;  she  made 
Krft  nwn  thought  or  it;  ^foft  builds  the  outer 
*  «a  tht  shape  that  gt^es  her  the  largest 
in  the  smallest  wrapper;  and  in  the 
tiX^  *hf  eronoiuUrv  -pace  and  material. 
these  wondrriv*!.  ;irchitects  are,  they 
r  otjpidity  in  th<   *ace  of  the  smallest 
M  *hr  one  hand  their  instincts  teach  them 
,*u  i'ur-n  ot  science;  but  on  rhf  other  it  is  plain 
:*-*  »•«!:*  rely-  without  the  power  of  reflection. 
fij.ve-.l  ?u>seif  of  this  fact  by  various  experi- 


Wsiftj*  has  chanced  ^>  set  up  house  be- 
«*  walkfc  sa  my  enciostjre,  wfeich  enables 


bell-glass.  IB  U* 
i&ancc,  because  die 
*ma*h  it.  One  nig 

open  fields 
bm 

gone  h 

COMMON  WASPS 

glass  over  the  entrance  of  the  burrow,  after  first  flat- 
tening the  soil.  When  the  Wasps  began  work  again 
next  morning  and  found  themselves  checked  in  their 
flight,  would  they  succeed  in  making  a  passage  under 
the  rim  of  the  glass*?  Would  these  sturdy  creatures, 
who  were  capable  of  digging  a  spacious  cavern,  realise 
that  a  very  short  underground  tunnel  would  set  them 
free?  That  was  the  question. 

The  next  morning  I  found  the  bright  sunlight  falling 
on  the  bell-glass,  and  the  workers  ascending  in  crowds 
from  underground,  eager  to  go  in  search  of  provisions. 
They  butted  against  the  transparent  wall,  tumbled 
down,  picked  themselves  up  again,  and  whirled  round 
and  round  in  a  crazy  swarm.  Some,  weary  of  dancing, 
wandered  peevishly  at  random  and  then  re-entered  their 
dwelling.  Others  took  their  places  as  the  sun  grew 
hotter.  But  not  one  of  them,  not  a  single  one,  scratched 
with  her  feet  at  the  base  of  the  glass  circle.  This  means 
of  escape  was  beyond  them. 

Meanwhile  a  few  Wasps  who  had  spent  the  night 
out  of  doors  were  coming  in  from  the  fields.  Round  and 
round  the  bell-glass  they  flew;  and  at  last,  after  much 
hesitation,  one  of  them  decided  to  dig  under  the  edge. 
Others  followed  her  example,  a  passage  was  easily 
opened,  and  the  Wasps  went  in.  Then  I  closed  the 
passage  with  some  earth.  The  narrow  opening,  if  seen 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

from  within,  might  help  the  Wasps  to  escape,  and  I 
wished  to  leave  the  prisoners  the  honour  of  winning 
their  liberty. 

However  poor  the  Wasps'  power  of  reasoning,  I 
thought  their  escape  was  now  probable.  Those  who  had 
just  entered  would  surely  show  the  way;  they  would 
teach  the  others  to  dig  below  the  wall  of  glass. 

I  was  too  hasty.  Of  learning  by  experience  or  ex- 
ample there  was  not  a  sign.  Inside  the  glass  not  an 
attempt  was  made  to  dig  a  tunnel.  The  insect  popula- 
tion whirled  round  and  round,  but  showed  no  enter- 
prise. They  floundered  about,  while  every  day  numbers 
died  from  famine  and  heat.  At  the  end  of  a  week  not 
one  was  left  alive.  A  heap  of  corpses  covered  the 
ground. 

The  Wasps  returning  from  the  field  could  find  their 
way  in,  because  the  power  of  scenting  their  house 
through  the  soil,  and  searching  for  it,  is  one  of  their 
natural  instincts,  one  of  the  means  of  defence  -given  to 
them.  There  is  no  need  for  thought  or  reasoning  here : 
the  earthy  obstacle  has  been  familiar  to  every  Wasp 
since  Wasps  first  came  into  the  world. 

But  those  who  are  within  the  bell-glass  have  no  such 
instinct  to  help  them.  Their  aim  is  to  get  into  the  light, 
and  finding  daylight  in  their  transparent  prison  they 
think  their  aim  is  accomplished.  In  spite  of  constant 


COMMON  WASPS 

collisions  with  the  glass  they  spend  themselves  in  vainly 
trying  to  fly  farther  in  the  direction  of  the  sunshine. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  past  to  teach  them  what  to  do. 
They  keep  blindly  to  their  familiar  habits,  and  die. 


ii 


SOME  OF  THEIR  HABITS 

If  we  open  the  thick  envelope  of  the  nest  we  shall  find, 
inside,  a  number  of  combs,  or  layers  of  cells,  lying  one 
below  the  other  and  fastened  together  by  solid  pillars. 
The  number  of  these  layers  varies.  Towards  the  end  of 
the  season  there  may  be  ten,  or  even  more.  The  opening 
of  the  cells  is  on  the  lower  surface.  In  this  strange 
world  the  young  grow,  sleep,  and  receive  their  food 
head  downwards. 

The  various  storeys,  or  layers  of  combs,  are  divided 
by  open  spaces;  and  between  the  outer  envelope  and 
the  stack  of  combs  there  are  doorways  through  which 
every  part  can  be  easily  reached.  There  is  a  continual 
coming  and  going  of  nurses,  attending  to  the  grubs  in 
the  cells.  On  one  side  of  the  outer  wrapper  is  the  gate 
of  the  city,  a  modest  unadorned  opening,  lost  among 
the  thin  scales  of  the  envelope.  Facing  it  is  the  entrance 
to  the  tunnel  that  leads  from  the  cavity  to  the  world 
at  large. 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

In  a  Wasp  community  there  is  a  large  number  of 
Wasps  whose  whole  life  is  spent  in  work.  It  is  their 
business  to  enlarge  the  nest  as  the  population  grows; 
and  though  they  have  no  grubs  of  their  own,  they  nurse 
the  grubs  in  the  cells  with  the  greatest  care  and  industry. 
Wishing  to  watch  their  operations,  and  also  to  see  what 
would  take  place  at  the  approach  of  winter,  I  placed 
under  cover  one  October  a  few  fragments  of  a  nest,  con- 
taking  a  large  number  of  eggs  and  grubs,  with  about 
a  hundred  workers  to  take  care  of  them. 

To  make  my  inspection  easier  I  separated  the  combs 
and  placed  them  side  by  side,  with  the  openings  of  the 
cells  turned  upwards.  This  arrangement,  the  reverse 
of  the  usual  position,  did  not  seem  to  annoy  my 
prisoners,  who  soon  recovered  from  the  disturbance  and 
set  to  work  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  In  case  they 
should  wish  to  build  I  gave  them  a  slip  of  soft  wood; 
and  I  fed  them  with  honey.  The  underground  cave  in 
which  the  nest  hangs  out  of  doors  was  represented  by 
a  large  earthen  pan  under  a  wire-gauze  cover.  A  re- 
movable cardboard  dome  provided  darkness  for  the 
Wasps,  and — when  removed — light  for  me. 

The  Wasps'  work  went  on  as  if  it  had  never  been 
interrupted.  The  worker- Wasps  attended  to  the  grubs 
and  the  building  at  the  same  time.  They  began  to 
raise  a  wall  round  the  most  thickly  populated  combs; 


COMMON  WASPS 

and  it  seemed  as  though  they  might  intend  to  build  a 
new  envelope,  to  replace  the  one  ruined  by  my  spade. 
But  they  were  not  repairing;  they  were  simply  carrying 
on  the  work  from  the  point  at  which  I  interrupted  it. 
Over  about  a  third  of  the  comb  they  made  an  arched  roof 
of  paper  scales,  which  would  have  been  joined  to  the 
envelope  of  the  nest  if  it  had  been  intact.  The  tent 
they  made  sheltered  only  a  small  part  of  the  disk  of 
cells. 

As  for  the  wood  I  provided  for  them,  they  did  not 
touch  it.  To  this  raw  material,  which  would  have  been 
troublesome  to  work,  they  preferred  the  old  cells  that 
were  no  longer  in  use.  In  these  the  fibres  were  already 
prepared;  and,  with  a  little  saliva  and  a  little  grinding 
in  their  mandibles,  they  turned  them  into  pulp  of  the 
highest  quality.  The  uninhabited  cells  were  nibbled 
into  pieces,  and  out  of  the  ruins  a  sort  of  canopy  was 
built.  New  cells  could  be  made  in  the  same  way  if 
necessary. 

Even  more  interesting  than  this  roofing-work  is  the 
feeding  of  the  grubs.  One  could  never  weary  of  the 
sight  of  the  rough  fighters  turned  into  tender  nurses. 
The  barracks  become  a  creche.  With  what  care  those 
grubs  are  reared!  If  we  watch  one  of  the  busy  Wasps 
we  shall  see  her,  with  her  crop  swollen  with  honey,  halt 
in  front  of  a  cell.  With  a  thoughtful  air  she  bends 

[H9] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

her  head  into  the  opening,  and  touches  the  grub  with  the 
tip  of  her  antenna.  The  grub  wakes  and  gapes  at  her, 
like  a  fledgling  when  the  mother-bird  returns  to  the 
nest  with  food. 

For  a  moment  the  awakened  larva  swings  its  head  to 
and  fro :  it  is  blind,  and  is  trying  to  feel  the  food  brought 
to  it.  The  two  mouths  meet;  a  drop  of  syrup  passes 
from  the  nurse's  mouth  to  the  nurseling's.  That  is 
enough  for  the  moment:  now  for  the  next  Wasp-baby. 
The  nurse  moves  on,  to  continue  her  duties  elsewhere. 

Meanwhile  the  grub  is  licking  the  base  of  its  own 
neck.  For,  while  it  is  being  fed,  there  appears  a  tempo- 
rary swelling  on  its  chest,  which  acts  as  a  bib,  and  catches 
whatever  trickles  down  from  the  mouth.  After 
swallowing  the  chief  part  of  the  meal  the  grub  gathers  up 
the  crumbs  that  have  fallen  on  its  bib.  Then  the  swell- 
ing disappears;  and  the  grub,  withdrawing  a  little  way 
into  its  cell,  resumes  its  sweet  slumbers. 

When  fed  in  my  cage  the  Wasp-grubs  have  their  heads 
up,  and  what  falls  from  their  mouths  collects  naturally 
on  their  bibs.  When  fed  in  the  nest  they  have  their 
heads  down.  But  I  have  no  doubt  that  even  in  this 
position  the  bib  serves  its  purpose. 

By  slightly  bending  its  head  the  grub  can  always  de- 
posit on  the  projecting  bib  a  portion  of  the  overflowing 
mouthful,  which  is  sticky  enough  to  remain  there. 

[150] 


COMMON  WASPS 

Moreover,  it  is  quite  possible  that  the  nurse  herself 
places  a  portion  of  her  helping  on  this  spot.  Whether 
it  be  above  or  below  the  mouth,  right  way  up  or  upside 
down,  the  bib  fulfils  its  office  because  of  the  sticky  nature 
of  the  food.  It  is  a  temporary  saucer  which  shortens  the 
work  of  serving  out  the  rations,  and  enables  the  grub  to 
feed  in  a  more  or  less  leisurely  fashion  and  without  too 
much  gluttony. 

In  the  open  country,  late  in  the  year  when  fruit  is 
scarce,  the  grubs  are  mostly  fed  upon  minced  Fly;  but  in 
my  cages  everything  is  refused  but  honey.  Both  nurses 
and  nurselings  seem  to  thrive  on  this  diet,  and  if  any  in- 
truder ventures  too  near  to  the  combs  he  is  doomed. 
Wasps,  it  appears,  are  far  from  hospitable.  Even  the 
Polistes,  an  insect  who  is  absolutely  like  a  Wasp  in  shape 
and  colour,  is  at  once  recognised  and  mobbed  if  she 
approaches  the  honey  the  Wasps  are  sipping.  Her  ap- 
pearance takes  nobody  in  for  a  moment,  and  unless  she 
hastily  retires  she  will  meet  with  a  violent  death.  No, 
it  is  not  a  good  thing  to  enter  a  Wasps'  nest,  even  when 
the  stranger  wears  the  same  uniform,  pursues  the  same 
industry,  and  is  almost  a  member  of  the  same  corpo- 
ration. 

Again  and  again  I  have  seen  the  savage  reception  given 
to  strangers.  If  the  stranger  be  of  sufficient  importance 
he  is  stabbed,  and  his  body  is  dragged  from  the  nest  and 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

flung  into  the  refuse-heap  below.  But  the  poisoned  dag- 
ger seems  to  be  reserved  for  great  occasions.  If  I  throw 
the  grub  of  a  Saw-fly  among  the  Wasps  they  show  great 
surprise  at  the  black-and-green  dragon;  they  snap  at  it 
boldly,  and  wound  it,  but  without  stinging  it.  They  try 
to  haul  it  away.  The  dragon  resists,  anchoring  itself  to 
the  comb  by  its  hooks,  holding  on  now  by  its  fore-legs 
and  now  by  its  hind-legs.  At  last  the  grub,  however, 
weakened  by  its  wounds,  is  torn  from  the  comb  and 
dragged  bleeding  to  the  refuse-pit.  It  has  taken  a 
couple  of  hours  to  dislodge  it. 

Supposing,  on  the  other  hand,  I  throw  on  to  the  combs 
a  certain  imposing  grub  that  lives  under  the  bark  of 
cherry-trees,  five  or  six  Wasps  will  at  once  prick  it  with 
their  stings.  In  a  couple  of  minutes  it  is  dead.  But  the 
hugh  dead  body  is  much  too  heavy  to  be  carried  out  of 
the  nest.  So  the  Wasps,  finding  they  cannot  move 
the  grub,  eat  it  where  it  lies,  or  at  least  reduce  its  weight 
till  they  can  drag  the  remains  outside  the  walls. 

in 

THEIR   SAD   END 

Protected  in  this  fierce  way  against  the  invasion  of  in- 
truders, and  fed  with  excellent  honey,  the  grubs  in  my 
cage  prosper  greatly.  But  of  course  there  are  excep- 

[152] 


COMMON  WASPS 

tions.  In  the  Wasps'  nest,  as  everywhere,  there  are 
weaklings  who  are  cut  down  before  their  time. 

I  see  these  puny  sufferers  refuse  their  food  and  slowly 
pine  away.  The  nurses  perceive  it  even  more  clearly. 
They  .bend  their  heads  over  the  invalid,  sound  it  with 
their  antennae,  and  pronounce  it  incurable.  Then  the 
creature  at  the  point  of  death  is  torn  ruthlessly  from  its 
cell  and  dragged  outside  the  nest.  In  the  brutal  com- 
monwealth of  the  Wasps  the  invalid  is  merely  a  piece 
of  rubbish,  to  be  got  rid  of  as  soon  as  possible  for  fear  of 
contagion.  Nor  indeed  is  this  the  worst.  As  winter 
draws  near  the  Wasps  foresee  their  fate.  They  know 
their  end  is  at  hand. 

The  first  cold  nights  of  November  bring  a  change  in 
the  nest.  The  building  proceeds  with  diminished  en- 
thusiasm ;  the  visits  to  the  pool  of  honey  are  less  constant. 
Household  duties  are  relaxed.  Grubs  gaping  with 
hunger  receive  tardy  relief,  or  are  even  neglected.  Pro- 
found uneasiness  seizes  upon  the  nurses.  Their  former 
devotion  is  succeeded  by  indifference,  which  soon  turns 
to  dislike.  What  is  the  good  of  continuing  attentions 
which  soon  will  be  impossible?  A  time  of  famine  is 
coming;  the  nurselings  in  any  case  must  die  a  tragic 
death.  So  the  tender  nurses  become  savage  execu- 
tioners. 

"Let  us  leave  no  orphans,"  they  say  to  themselves; 

[153] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

"no  one  would  care  for  them  after  we  are  gone.  Let  us 
kill  everything,  eggs  and  grubs  alike.  A  violent  end  is 
better  than  a  slow  death  by  starvation." 

A  massacre  follows.  The  grubs  are  seized  by  the 
scruff  of  the  neck,  brutally  torn  from  their  cells,  dragged 
out  of  the  nest,  and  thrown  into  the  refuse-heap  at  the 
bottom  of  the  cave.  The  nurses,  or  workers,  root  them 
out  of  their  cells  as  violently  as  though  they  were 
strangers  or  dead  bodies.  They  tug  at  them  savagely 
and  tear  them.  Then  the  eggs  are  ripped  open  and  de- 
voured. 

Before  much  longer  the  nurses  themselves,  the  execu- 
tioners, are  languidly  dragging  what  remains  of  their 
lives.  Day  by  day,  with  a  curiosity  mingled  with 
emotion,  I  watch  the  end  of  my  insects.  The  workers 
die  suddenly.  They  come  to  the  surface,  slip  down,  fall 
on  their  backs  and  rise  no  more,  as  if  they  were  struck 
by  lightning.  They  have  had  their  day;  they  are  slain 
by  age,  that  merciless  poison.  Even  so  does  a  piece  of 
clockwork  become  motionless  when  its  mainspring  has 
unwound  its  last  spiral. 

The  workers  are  old :  but  the  mothers  are  the  last  to 
be  born  into  the  nest,  and  have  all  the  vigour  of  youth. 
And  so,  when  winter  sickness  seizes  them,  they  are 
capable  of  a  certain  resistance.  Those  whose  end  is  near 
are  easily  distinguished  from  the  others  by  the  disorder 

[154] 


COMMON  WASPS 

of  their  appearance.  Their  backs  are  dusty.  While 
they  are  well  they  dust  themselves  without  ceasing,  and 
their  black-and-yellow  coats  are  kept  perfectly  glossy. 
Those  who  are  ailing  are  careless  of  cleanliness;  they 
stand  motionless  in  the  sun  or  wander  languidly  about. 
They  no  longer  brush  their  clothes. 

This  indifference  to  dress  is  a  bad  sign.  Two  or  three 
days  later  the  dusty  female  leaves  the  nest  for  the  last 
time.  She  goes  outside,  to  enjoy  yet  a  little  of  the  sun- 
light; presently  she  slides  quietly  to  the  ground  and 
does  not  get  up  again.  She  declines  to  die  in  her  be- 
loved paper  home,  where  the  code  of  the  Wasps  ordains 
absolute  cleanliness.  The  dying  Wasp  performs  her 
own  funeral  rites  by  dropping  herself  into  the  pit  at 
the  bottom  of  the  cavern.  For  reasons  of  health  these 
stoics  refuse  to  die  in  the  actual  house,  among  the  combs. 
The  last  survivors  retain  this  repugnance  to  the  very 
end.  It  is  a  law  that  never  falls  into  disuse,  however 
greatly  reduced  the  population  may  be. 

My  cage  becomes  emptier  day  by  day,  notwithstand- 
ing the  mildness  of  the  room,  and  notwithstanding  the 
saucer  of  honey  at  which  the  able-bodied  come  to  sip. 
At  Christmas  I  have  only  a  dozen  females  left.  On  the 
sixth  of  January  the  last  of  them  perishes. 

Whence  arises  this  mortality,  which  mows  down  the 
whole  of  my  wasps?  They  have  not  suffered  from 

[155] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

famine :  they  have  not  suffered  from  cold :  they  have  not 
suffered  from  home-sickness.  Then  what  have  they 
died  of? 

We  must  not  blame  their  captivity.  The  same  thing 
happens  in  the  open  country.  Various  nests  I  have  in- 
spected at  the  end  of  December  all  show  the  same  condi- 
tion. The  vast  majority  of  Wasps  must  die,  apparently, 
not  by  accident,  nor  illness,  nor  the  inclemency  of  the 
season,  but  by  an  inevitable  destiny,  which  destroys  them 
as  energetically  as  it  brings  them  into  life.  And  it  is 
well  for  us  that  it  is  so.  One  female  Wasp  is  enough 
to  found  a  city  of  thirty  thousand  inhabitants.  If  all 
were  to  survive,  what  a  scourge  they  would  be!  The 
Wasps  would  tyrannise  over  the  countryside. 

In  the  end  the  nest  itself  perishes.  A  certain  Cater- 
pillar which  later  on  becomes  a  mean-looking  Moth; 
a  tiny  reddish  Beetle;  and  a  scaly  grub  clad  in  gold 
velvet,  are  the  creatures  that  demolish  it.  They  gnaw 
the  floors  of  the  various  storeys,  and  crumble  the  whole 
dwelling.  A  few  pinches  of  dust,  a  few  shreds  of  brown 
paper  are  all  that  remain,  by  the  return  of  spring,  of  the 
Wasps'  city  and  its  thirty  thousand  inhabitants. 


CHAPTER  XI 


THE  AVENTURES  OF  A  GRUB 


THE  YOUNG  SITARIS 

THE  high  banks  of  sandy  clay  in  the  country 
round  about  Carpentras  are  the  favourite 
haunts  of  a  host  of  Bees  and  Wasps,  those 
lovers  of  a  sunny  aspect  and  of  soil  that  is  easy  to  dig 
in.  Here,  in  the  month  of  May,  two  Bees,  both  of  them 
Mason-bees,  builders  of  subterranean  cells,  are  espe- 
cially abundant.  One  of  them  builds  at  the  entrance  of 
her  dwelling  an  advanced  fortification,  an  earthly 
cylinder,  wrought  in  open  work  and  curved,  of  the 
width  and  length  of  a  man's  finger.  When  it  is  peopled 
with  many  Bees  one  stands  amazed  at  the  elaborate 
ornamentation  formed  by  all  these  hanging  fingers  of 
clay. 

The  other  Bee,  who  is  very  much  more  frequently 
seen  and  is  called  Anthophora  pilipes,  leaves  the  opening 
of  her  corridor  bare.  The  chinks  between  the  stones 
in  old  walls  and  abondoned  hovels,  or  exposed  surfaces 
of  sand  stone  or  marl,  are  found  suitable  for  her  labours; 

[157] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

but  the  favourite  spots,  those  to  which  the  greatest 
number  of  swarms  resort,  are  straight  stretches  of  ground 
exposed  to  the  south,  such  as  occur  in  the  cuttings  of 
deeply-sunken  roads.  Here,  over  areas  many  yards  in 
width,  the  wall  is  drilled  with  a  multitude  of  holes, 
which  give  to  the  earthy  mass  the  look  of  some  enormous 
sponge.  These  round  holes  might  have  been  made  with 
a  gimlet,  so  regular  are  they.  Each  is  the  entrance  to 
a  winding  corridor,  which  runs  to  the  depth  of  four  or 
five  inches.  The  cells  are  at  the  far  end.  If  we  wish 
to  watch  the  labours  of  the  industrious  Bee  we  must 
visit  her  workshop  during  the  latter  half  of  May.  Then 
— but  at  a  respectful  distance — we  may  see,  in  all  its 
bewildering  activity,  the  tumultuous,  buzzing  swarm, 
busied  with  the  building  and  provisioning  of  the  cells. 
But  it  has  been  most  often  during  the  months  of 
August  and  September,  the  happy  months  of  the  summer 
holidays,  that  I  have  visited  the  banks  inhabited  by  the 
Anthophora.  At  this  season  all  is  silent  near  the  nests : 
the  work  has  long  been  completed:  and  numbers  of 
Spiders'  webs  line  the  crevices  or  plunge  their  silken 
tubes  into  the  Bees'  corridors.  That  is  no  reason,  how- 
ever, for  hastily  abandoning  the  city  that  was  once  so 
full  of  life  and  bustle,  and -now  appears  deserted.  A 
few  inches  below  the  surface,  thousands  of  grubs  are 
imprisoned  in  their  cells  of  clay,  resting  until  the  coming 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GRUB 

spring.  Surely  these  grubs,  which  are  paralysed  and 
incapable  of  self-defence,  must  be  a  temptation — fat 
little  morsels  as  they  are — to  some  kind  of  parasite,  some 
kind  of  insect  stranger  in  search  of  prey.  The  matter 
is  worth  inquiring  into. 

Two  facts  are  at  once  noticeable.  Some  dismal- 
looking  Flies,  half  black  and  half  white,  are  flying  in- 
dolently from  gallery  to  gallery,  evidently  with  the 
object  of  laying  their  eggs  there.  Many  of  them  are 
hanging  dry  and  lifeless  in  the  Spiders'  webs.  At  other 
places  the  entire  surface  of  a  bank  is  hung  with  the  dried 
corpses  of  a  certain  Beetle,  called  the  Sitaris.  Among 
the  corpses,  however,  are  a  few  live  Beetles,  both  male 
and  female.  The  female  Beetle  invariably  disappears 
into  the  Bees'  dwelling.  Without  a  doubt  she,  too,  lays 
her  eggs  there. 

If  we  give  a  few  blows  of  the  pick  to  the  surface  of 
the  bank  we  shall  find  out  something  more  about  these 
things.  During  the  early  days  of  August  this  is  what 
we  shall  see:  the  cells  forming  the  top  layer  are  unlike 
those  at  a  greater  depth.  The  difference  is  owing  to  the 
fact  that  the  same  establishment  is  used  by  two  kinds  of 
Bee,  the  Anthophora  and  the  Osmia. 

The  Anthophorae  are  the  actual  pioneers.  The  work 
of  boring  the  galleries  is  wholly  theirs,  and  their  cells 
are  right  at  the  end.  If  they,  for  any  reason,  leave  the 

[159] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

outer  cells,  the  Osmia  comes  in  and  takes  possession  of 
them.  She  divides  the  corridors  into  unequal  and  in- 
artistic cells  by  means  of  rough  earthen  partitions,  her 
only  idea  of  masonry. 

The  cells  of  the  Anthophora  are  faultlessly  regular  and 
perfectly  finished.  They 'are  works  of  art,  cut  out  of 
the  very  substance  of  the  earth,  well  out  of  reach  of  all 
ordinary  enemies;  and  for  this  reason  the  larva  of  this 
Bee  has  no  means  of  spinning  a  cocoon.  It  lies  naked 
in  the  cell,  whose  inner  surface  is  polished  like  stucco. 

In  the  Osmia's  cells,  however,  means  of  defence  are 
required,  because  they  are  at  the  surface  of  the  soil,  are 
roughly  made,  and  are  badly  protected  by  their  thin  par- 
titions. So  the  Osmia's  grubs  enclose  themselves  in  a 
very  strong  cocoon,  which  preserves  them  both  from  the 
rough  sides  of  their  shapeless  cells  and  from  the  jaws 
of  various  enemies  who  prowl  about  the  galleries.  It 
is  easy,  then,  in  a  bank  inhabited  by  these  two  Bees, 
to  recognise  the  cells  belonging  to  each.  The  An- 
thophora's  cells  contain  a  naked  grub :  those  of  the  Osmia 
contain  a  grub  enclosed  in  a  cocoon. 

Now  each  of  these  two  Bees  has  its  own  especial 
parasite,  or  uninvited  guest.  The  parasite  of  the  Osmia 
is  the  black-and-white  Fly  who  is  to  be  seen  so  often 
at  the  entrance  to  the  galleries,  intent  on  laying  her  eggs 
within  them.  The  parasite  of  the  Anthophora  is  the 

[160] 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GRUB 

Sitaris,  the  Beetle  whose  corpses  appear  in  such  quan- 
tities on  the  surface  of  the  bank. 

If  the  layer  of  Osmia-cells  be  removed  from  the  nest 
we  can  observe  the  cells  of  the  Anthophora.  Some  will 
be  occupied  by  larvae,  some  by  the  perfect  insect,  and 
some — indeed  many — will  contain  a  singular  egg-shaped 
shell,  divided  into  segments  with  projecting  breathing- 
pores.  This  shell  is  extremely  thin  and  fragile;  it  is 
amber-coloured,  and  so  transparent  that  one  can  dis- 
tinguish quite  plainly  through  its  sides  a  full-grown 
Sitaris,  struggling  as  though  to  set  herself  at  liberty. 

What  is  this  curious  shell,  which  does  not  appear  to 
be  a  Beetle's  shell  at  all?  And  how  can  this  parasite 
reach  a  cell  which  seems  to  be  inaccessible  because  of 
its  position,  and  in  which  the  most  careful  examination 
under  the  magnifying-glass  reveals  no  sign  of  violence? 
Three  years  of  close  observation  enabled  me  to  answer 
these  questions,  and  to  add  one  of  its  most  astonishing 
chapters  to  the  story  of  insect  life.  Here  is  the  result 
of  my  inquiries. 

The  Sitaris  in  the  full-grown  state  lives  only  for  a  day 
or  two,  and  its  whole  life  is  passed  at  the  entrance  to 
the  Anthophora's  galleries.  It  has  no  concern  but  the 
reproduction  of  the  species.  It  is  provided  with  the 
usual  digestive  organs,  but  I  have  grave  reasons  to  doubt 
whether  it  actuallv  takes  any  nourishment  whatever. 

[161] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

The  female's  only  thought  is  to  lay  her  eggs.  This  done, 
she  dies.  The  male,  -after  cowering  in  a  crevice  for  a  day 
or  two,  also  perishes.  This  is  the  origin  of  all  those 
corpses  swinging  in  the  Spiders'  web,  with  which  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  Anthophora's  dwelling  is  uphol- 
stered. 

At  first  sight  one  would  expect  that  the  Sitaris,  when 
laying  her  eggs,  would  go  from  cell  to  cell,  confiding 
an  egg  to  each  of  the  Bee-grubs.  But  when,  in  the 
course  of  my  observations,  I  searched  the  Bees'  galleries, 
I  invariably  found  the  eggs  of  the  Sitaris  gathered  in 
a  heap  inside  the  entrance,  at  a  distance  of  an  inch  or 
two  from  the  opening.  They  are  white,  oval,  and  very 
small,  and  they  stick  together  slightly.  As  for  their 
number,  I  do  not  believe  I  am  exaggerating  when  I  esti- 
mate it  at  two  thousand  at  least. 

Thus,  contrary  to  what  one  was  to  some  extent  en- 
titled to  suppose,  the  eggs  are  not  laid  in  the  cells  of  the 
Bee;  they  are  simply  dumped  in  a  heap  inside  the  door- 
way of  her  dwelling.  Nay  more,  the  mother  does  not 
make  any  protective  structure  for  them;  she  takes  no 
pains  to  shield  them  from  the  rigours  of  winter;  she 
does  not  even  attempt  to  stop  up  the  entrance-lobby 
in  which  she  has  placed  them,  and  so  protect  them  from 
the  thousand  enemies  that  threaten  them.  For  as  long 

[162] 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GRUB 

as  the  frosts  of  winter  have  not  arrived  these  open  gal- 
leries are  trodden  by  Spiders  and  other  plunderers,  for 
whom  the  eggs  would  make  an  agreeable  meal. 

The  better  to  observe  them,  I  placed  a  number  of  the 
eggs  in  boxes;  and  when  they  hatched  out  about  the 
end  of  September  I  imagined  they  would  at  once  start 
off  in  search  of  an  Anthophora-cell.  I  was  entirely 
wrong.  The  young  grubs — little  black  creatures  no 
more  than  the  twenty-fifth  of  an  inch  long — did  not 
move  away,  though  provided  with  vigorous  legs.  They 
remained  higgledy-piggledy,  mixed  up  with  the  skins  of 
the  eggs  whence  they  came.  In  vain  I  placed  within 
their  reach  lumps  of  earth  containing  open  Bee-cells: 
nothing  would  tempt  them  to  move.  If  I  forcibly  re- 
moved a  few  from  the  common  heap  they  at  once  hur- 
ried back  to  it  in  order  to  hide  themselves  among  the 
rest. 

At  last,  to  assure  myself  that  the  Sitaris-grubs,  in  the 
free  state,  do  not  disperse  after  they  are  hatched,  I  went 
in  the  winter  to  Carpentras  and  inspected  the  banks 
inhabited  by  the  Anthophorae.  There,  as  in  my  boxes, 
I  found  the  grubs  all  piled  up  in  heaps,  all  mixed  up 
with  the  skins  of  the  eggs. 

I  was  no  nearer  answering  the  question :  how  does  the 
Sitaris  get  into  the  Bees'  cells,  and  into  a  shell  that  does 
not  belong  to  it*? 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 
ii 

THE  FIRST  ADVENTURE 

The  appearance  of  the  young  Sitaris  showed  me  at 
once  that  its  habits  must  be  peculiar.  It  could  not,  I 
saw,  be  called  on  to  move  on  an  ordinary  surface.  The 
spot  where  this  larva  has  to  live  evidently  exposes  it 
to  the  risk  of  many  dangerous  falls,  since,  in  order  to 
prevent  them,  it  is  equipped  with  a  pair  of  powerful 
mandibles,  curved  and  sharp;  robust  legs  which  end  in 
a  long  and  very  mobile  claw;  a  variety  of  bristles  and 
probes;  and  a  couple  of  strong  spikes  with  sharp,  hard 
points — an  elaborate  mechanism,  like  a  sort  of  plough- 
share, capable  of  biting  into  the  most  highly  polished 
surface.  Nor  is  this  all.  It  is  further  provided  with 
a  sticky  liquid,  sufficiently  adhesive  to  hold  it  in  position 
without  the  help  of  other  appliances.  In  vain  I  racked 
my  brains  to  guess  what  the  substance  might  be,  so 
shifting,  so  uncertain,  and  so  perilous,  which  the  young 
Sitaris  is  destined  to  inhabit.  I  waited  with  eager  im- 
patience for  the  return  of  the  warm  weather. 

At  the  end  of  April  the  young  grubs  imprisoned  in  my 
cages,  hitherto  lying  motionless  and  hidden  in  the  spongy 
heap  of  egg-skins,  suddenly  began  to  move.  They 
scattered,  and  ran  about  in  all  directions  through  the 
boxes  and  jars  in  which  they  have  passed  the  winter. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GRUB 

Their  hurried  movements  and  untiring  energy  showed 
they  were  in  search  of  something,  and  the  natural 
thing  for  them  to  seek  was  food.  For  these  grubs  were 
hatched  at  the  end  of  September,  and  since  then,  that  is 
to  say  for  seven  long  months,  they  had  taken  no  nourish- 
ment, although  they  were  by  no  means  in  a  state  of 
torpor.  From  the  moment  of  their  hatching  they  are 
doomed,  though  full  of  life,  to  an  absolute  fast  lasting 
for  seven  months;  and  when  I  saw  their  excitement  I 
naturally  supposed  that  an  imperious  hunger  had  set 
them  bustling  in  that  fashion. 

The  food  they  desired  could  only  be  the  contents  of 
the  Anthophora's  cells,  since  at  a  later  stage  the  Sitaris 
is  found  in  those  cells.  Now  these  contents  are  limited 
to  honey  and  Bee-grubs. 

I  offered  them  some  cells  containing  larvae:  I  even 
slipped  the  Sitares  into  the  cells,  and  did  all  sorts  of 
things  to  tempt  their  appetite.  My  efforts  were  fruit- 
less. Then  I  tried  honey.  In  hunting  for  cells  pro- 
visioned with  honey  I  lost  a  good  part  of  the  month  of 
May.  Having  found  them  I  removed  the  Bee-grub 
from  some  of  them,  and  laid  the  Sitaris-grub  on  the 
surface  of  the  honey.  Never  did  experiment  break 
down  so  completely!  Far  from  eating  the  honey,  the 
grubs  became  entangled  in  the  sticky  mass  and  perished 
in  it,  suffocated.  "I  have  offered  you  larvae,  cells, 

[165] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

honey!"  I  cried  in  despair.     "Then  what  do  you  want, 
you  fiendish  little  creatures?" 

Well,  in  the  end  I  found  out  what  they  wanted. 
They  wanted  the  Anthophora  herself  to  carry  them  into 
the  cells! 

When  April  comes,  as  I  said  before,  the  heap  of  grubs 
at  the  entrance  to  the  Bees'  cells  begins  to  show  signs  of 
activity.  A  few  days  later  they  are  no  longer  there. 
Strange  as  it  may  appear,  they  are  all  careering  about 
the  country,  sometimes  at  a  great  distance,  clinging  like 
grim  death  to  the  fleece  of  a  Bee ! 

When  the  Anthophorae  pass  by  the  entrance  to  their 
cells,  on  their  way  either  in  or  out,  the  young  Sitaris- 
grub,  who  is  lying  in  wait  there,  attaches  himself  to 
one  of  the  Bees.  He  wriggles  into  the  fur  and  clutches 
it  so  firmly  that  he  need  not  fear  a  fall  during  the  long 
journeys  of  the  insect  that  carries  him.  By  thus  attach- 
ing himself  to  the  Bee  the  Sitaris  intends  to  get  himself 
carried,  at  the  right  moment,  into  a  cell  supplied  with 
honey. 

One  might  at  first  sight  believe  that  these  adventur- 
ous grubs  derive  food  for  a  time  from  the  Bee's  body. 
But  not  at  all.  The  young  Sitares,  embedded  in  the 
fleece,  at  right  angles  to  the  body  of  the  Anthophora, 
head  inwards,  tail  outwards,  do  not  stir  from  the  spot 
they  have  selected,  a  point  near  the  Bee's  shoulders. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GRUB 

We  do  not  see  them  wandering  from  spot  to  spot,  ex- 
ploring the  Bee's  body,  seeking  the  part  where  the  skin, 
is  most  delicate,  as  they  would  certainly  do  if  they  were 
really  feeding  on  the  insect.  On  the  contrary,  they 
are  always  fixed  on  the  toughest  and  hardest  part  of  the 
Bee's  body,  a  little  below  the  insertion  of  the  wings, 
or  sometimes  on  the  head;  and  they  remain  absolutely 
motionless,  clinging  to  a  single  hair.  It  seems  to  me 
undeniable  that  the  young  Shares  settle  on  the  Bee 
merely  to  make  her  carry  them  into  the  cells  that  she  will 
soon  be  building. 

But  in  the  meantime  the  future  parasites  must  hold 
tight  to  the  fleece  of  their  hostess,  in  spite  of  her  rapid 
flights  among  the  flowers,  in  spite  of  her  rubbing  against 
the  walls  of  the  galleries  when  she  enters  to  take  shelter, 
and  in  spite,  above  all,  of  the  brushing  which  she  must 
often  give  herself  with  her  feet,  to  dust  herself  and  keep 
spick  and  span.  We  were  wondering  a  little  time  ago 
what  the  dangerous,  shifting  thing  could  be  on  which 
the  grub  would  have  to  establish  itself.  That  thing  is 
the  hair  of  a  Bee  who  makes  a  thousand  rapid  journeys, 
now  diving  into  her  narrow  galleries,  now  forcing  her 
way  down  the  tight  throat  of  a  flower. 

We  can  now  quite  understand  the  use  of  the  two 
spikes,  which  close  together  and  are  able  to  take  hold 
of  hair  more  easily  than  the  most  delicate  tweezers.  We 

[167] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

can  see  the  full  value  of  the  sticky  liquid  that  helps  the 
tiny  creature  to  hold  fast;  and  we  can  realise  that  the 
elastic  probes  and  bristles  on  the  legs  serve  to  penetrate 
the  Bee's  down  and  anchor  the  grub  in  position.  The 
more  one  considers  this  arrangement,  which  seems  so 
useless  as  the  grub  drags  itself  laboriously  over  a  smooth 
surface,  the  more  does  one  marvel  at  all  the  machinery 
which  this  fragile  creature  carries  about  to  save  it  from 
falling  during  its  adventurous  rides. 

in 

THE  SECOND  ADVENTURE 

One  2 1st  of  May  I  went  to  Carpentras,  determined  to 
see,  if  possible,  the  entrance  of  the  Sitaris  into  the  Bee's 
cells. 

The  works  were  in  full  swing.  In  front  of  a  high  ex- 
panse of  earth  a  swarm  of  Bees,  stimulated  by  the  sun, 
was  dancing  a  crazy  ballet.  From  the  tumultuous  heart 
of  the  cloud  rose  a  monotonous,  threatening  murmur, 
while  my  bewildered  eye  tried  to  follow  the  movements 
of  the  throng.  Quick  as  a  lightning-flash  thousands  of 
Anthophorse  were  flying  hither  and  thither  in  search  of 
booty:  thousands  of  others,  also,  were  arriving,  laden 
with  honey,  or  with  mortar  for  their  building. 

At  that  time  I  knew  comparatively  little  about  these 
insects.  It  seemed  to  me  that  any  one  who  ventured 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GRUB 

into  the  swarm,  or — above  all — who  laid  a  rash  hand 
on  the  Bees'  dwellings,  would  instantly  be  stabbed  by 
a  thousand  stings.  I  had  once  observed  the  combs  of  the 
Hornet  too  closely;  and  a  shiver  of  fear  passed  through 
me. 

Yet,  to  find  out  what  I  wished  to  know,  I  must  needs 
penetrate  that  fearsome  swarm;  I  must  stand  for  whole 
hours,  perhaps  all  day,  watching  the  works  I  intended 
to  upset;  lens  in  hand,  I  must  examine,  unmoved  amid 
the  whirl,  the  things  that  were  happening  in  the  cells. 
Moreover,  the  use  of  a  mask,  of  gloves,  of  a  covering 
of  any  kind,  was  out  of  the  question,  for  my  fingers  and 
eyes  must  be  absolutely  free.  No  matter :  even  though 
I  should  leave  the  Bee's  nest  with  my  face  swollen 
beyond  recognition,  I  was  determined  that  day  to  solve 
the  problem  that  had  puzzled  me  too  long. 

Having  caught  a  few  stray  Anthophorae  with  my  net, 
I  satisfied  myself  that  the  Sitaris-larvae  were  perched,  as 
I  expected,  on  the  Bees. 

I  buttoned  my  coat  tightly  and  entered  the  heart  of 
the  swarm.  With  a  few  blows  of  the  mattock  I  secured 
a  lump  of  earth,  and  to  my  great  surprise  found  myself 
uninjured.  A  second  expedition,  longer  than  the  first, 
had  the  same  result:  not  a  Bee  touched  me  with  her 
sting.  After  this  I  remained  permanently  in  front  of 
the  nest,  removing  lumps  of  earth,  spilling  the  honey, 

[169] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

and  crushing  the  Bees,  without  arousing  anything  worse 
than  a  louder  hum.  For  the  Anthophora  is  a  pacific 
creature.  When  disturbed  in  the  cells  it  leaves  them 
hastily  and  escapes,  sometimes  even  mortally  wounded, 
without  using  its  venomous  sting  except  when  it  is 
seized  and  handled. 

Thanks  to  this  unexpected  lack  of  spirit  in  the  Mason- 
bee,  I  was  able  for  hours  to  investigate  her  cells  at  my 
leisure,  seated  on  a  stone  in  the  midst  of  the  murmuring 
and  distracted  swarm,  without  receiving  a  single  sting, 
though  I  took  no  precautions  whatever.  Country  folk, 
happening  to  pass  and  seeing  me  seated  thus  calmly 
amid  the  Bees,  stopped  aghast  to  ask  me  if  I  had  be- 
witched them. 

In  this  way  I  examined  the  cells.  Some  were  still 
open,  and  contained  only  a  more  or  less  complete  store 
of  honey.  Others  were  closely  sealed  with  an  earthen 
lid.  The  contents  of  these  varied  greatly.  Sometimes 
I  found  the  larva  of  a  Bee;  sometimes  another,  fatter 
kind  of  larva;  at  other  times  honey  with  an  egg  floating 
on  the  surface.  The  egg  was  of  a  beautiful  white,  and 
was  shaped  like  a  cylinder  with  a  slight  curve,  a  fifth 
or  sixth  of  an  inch  in  length — the  egg  of  the  Anthophora. 

In  a  few  cells  I  found  this  egg  floating  all  alone  on  the 
surface  of  the  honey :  in  others,  very  many  others,  I  saw, 

[170] 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GRUB 

lying  on  the  Bee's  egg  as  though  on  a  sort  of  raft,  a  young 
Sitaris-grub.  Its  shape  and  size  were  those  of  the  crea- 
ture when  it  is  hatched.  Here,  then,  was  the  enemy 
within  the  gates. 

When  and  how  did  it  get  in?  In  none  of  the  cells 
was  I  able  to  detect  any  chink  by  which  it  could  have 
entered:  they  were  all  sealed  quite  tightly.  The  para- 
site must  have  established  itself  in  the  honey-warehouse 
before  the  warehouse  was  closed.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  open  cells,  full  of  honey  but  as  yet  without  an  egg, 
never  contain  a  Sitaris.  The  grub  must  therefore  gain 
admittance  either  while  the  Bee  is  laying  the  egg,  or 
else  afterwards,  while  she  is  busy  plastering  up  the  door. 
My  experiments  'have  convinced  me  that  the  Sitaris 
enters  the  cell  in  the  very  second  when  the  egg  is  laid 
on  the  surface  of  the  honey. 

If  I  take  a  cell  full  of  honey,  with  an  egg  floating  in 
it,  and  place  it  in  a  glass  tube  with  some  Sitaris-grubs, 
they  very  rarely  venture  inside  it.  They  cannot  reach 
the  raft  in  safety:  the  honey  that  surrounds  it  is  too 
dangerous.  If  one  of  them  by  chance  approaches  the 
honey  it  tries  to  escape  as  soon  as  it  sees  the  sticky  nature 
of  the  stuff  under  its  feet.  It  often  ends  by  falling  back 
into  the  cell,  where  it  dies  of  suffocation.  It  is  therefore 
certain  that  the  grub  does  not  leave  the  fleece  of  the  Bee 

[171] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

when  the  latter  is  in  her  cell  or  near  it,  in  order  to  make 
a  rush  for  the  honey;  for  this  honey  would  inevitably 
cause  its  death,  if  it  so  much  as  touched  the  surface. 

We  must  remember  that  the  young  Sitaris  which  is 
found  in  a  closed  cell  is  always  placed  on  the  egg  of  the 
Bee.  This  egg  not  only  serves  as  a  raft  for  the  tiny 
creature  floating  on  a  very  treacherous  lake,  but  also 
provides  it  with  its  first  meal.  To  get  at  this  egg,  in 
the  centre  of  the  lake  of  honey,  to  reach  this  raft  which 
is  also  its  first  food,  the  young  grub  must  somehow  con- 
trive to  avoid  the  fatal  touch  of  the  honey. 

There  is  only  one  way  in  which  this  can  be  done.  The 
clever  grub,  at  the  very  moment  when  the  Bee  is  laying 
her  egg,  slips  off  the  Bee  and  on  to  the  egg,  and  with 
it  reaches  the  surface  of  the  honey.  The  egg  is  too 
small  to  hold  more  than  one  grub,  and  that  is  why  we 
never  find  more  than  one  Sitaris  in  a  cell.  Such  a  per- 
formance on  the  part  of  a  grub  seems  extraordinarily 
inspired — but  then  the  study  of  insects  constantly  gives 
us  examples  of  such  inspiration. 

When  dropping  her  egg  upon  the  honey,  then,  the 
Anthophora  at  the  same  time  drops  into  her  cell  the 
mortal  enemy  of  her  race.  She  carefully  plasters  the 
lid  which  closes  the  entrance  to  the  cell,  and  all  is  done. 
A  second  cell  is  built  beside  it,  probably  to  suffer  the 
same  fate;  and  so  on  until  all  the  parasites  sheltered  by 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GRUB 

her  fleece  are  comfortably  housed.  Let  us  leave  the 
unhappy  mother  to  continue  her  fruitless  task,  and  turn 
our  attention  to  the  young  larva  which  has  so  cleverly 
secured  for  itself  board  and  lodging. 

Let  us  suppose  that  we  remove  the  lid  from  a  cell  in 
which  the  egg,  recently  laid,  supports  a  Sitaris-grub. 
The  egg  is  intact  and  in  perfect  condition.  But  now 
the  work  of  destruction  begins.  The  grub,  a  tiny  black 
speck  which  we  see  running  over  the  white  surface  of 
the  egg,  at  last  stops  and  balances  itself  firmly  on  its 
six  legs;  then,  seizing  the  delicate  skin  of  the  egg  with 
the  sharp  hooks  of  its  mandibles,  it  tugs  at  it  violently 
till  it  breaks  and  spills  the  contents.  These  contents 
the  grub  eagerly  drinks  up.  Thus  the  first  stroke  of  the 
parasite's  mandibles  is  aimed  at  the  destruction  of  the 
Bee's  egg. 

This  is  a  very  wise  precaution  on  the  part  of  the 
Sitaris-grub!  It  will  have  to  feed  on  the  honey  in  the 
cell:  the  Bee's  grub  which  would  come  out  of  the  egg 
would  also  require  the  honey:  there  is  not  enough  for 
two.  So — quick! — a  bite  at  the  egg,  and  the  difficulty 
is  removed. 

Moreover,  another  reason  for  the  destruction  of  the 
egg  is  that  special  tastes  compel  the  young  Sitaris  to 
make  its  first  meals  of  it.  The  tiny  creature  begins  by 
greedily  drinking  the  juices  which  the  torn  wrapper  of 

[173] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

the  egg  allows  to  escape.  For  several  days  it  continues 
to  rip  the  envelope  gradually  open,  and  to  feed  on  the 
liquid  that  trickles  from  it.  Meanwhile  it  never  touches 
the  honey  that  surrounds  it.  The  Bee's  egg  is  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  the  Sitaris-grub,  not  merely  as  a 
boat,  but  also  as  nourishment. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  the  egg  is  nothing  but  a  dry 
skin.  The  first  meal  is  finished.  The  Sitaris-grub, 
which  is  now  twice  as  large  as  before,  splits  open  along 
the  back,  and  through  this  slit  the  second  form  of  this 
singular  Beetle  falls  on  the  surface  of  the  honey.  Its 
cast  skin  remains  on  the  raft,  and  will  presently  dis- 
appear with  it  beneath  the  waves  of  honey. 

Here  ends  the  history  of  the  first  form  adopted  by  the 
Sitaris. 


[174] 


CHAPTER  XII 


THE  CRICKET 


THE  HOUSEHOLDER 

THE    Field    Cricket,    the    inhabitant    of    the 
meadows,  is  almost  as  famous  as  the  Cicada, 
and  figures  among  the  limited  but  glorious 
number  of  the  classic  insects.     He  owes  this  honour  to 
his  song  and  his  house.     One  thing  alone  is  lacking  to 
complete  his  renown.     The  master  of  the  art  of  making 
animals  talk,  La  Fontaine,  gives  him  hardly  two  lines. 

Florian,  the  other  French  writer  of  fables,  gives  us  a 
story  of  a  Cricket,  but  it  lacks  the  simplicity  of  truth 
and  the  saving  salt  of  humour.  Besides,  it  represents 
the  Cricket  as  discontented,  bewailing  his  condition! 
This  is  a  preposterous  idea,  for  all  who  have  studied 
him  know,  on  the  contrary,  that  he  is  very  well  pleased 
with  his  own  talent  and  his  own  burrow.  And  indeed, 
at  the  end  of  the  story,  Florian  makes  him  admit : 

"My  snug  little  home  is  a  place  of  delight; 

If  you  want  to  live  happy,  live  hidden  from  sight !" 

[175] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

I  find  more  force  and  truth  in  some  verses  by  a  friend 
of  mine,  of  which  these  are  a  translation : 

Among  the  beasts  a  tale  is  told 

How  a  poor  Cricket  ventured  nigh 
His  door  to  catch  the  sun's  warm  gold 

And  saw  a  radiant  Butterfly. 

She  passed  with  tails  thrown  proudly  back 

And  long  gay  rows  of  crescents  blue, 
Brave  yellow  stars  and  bands  of  black, 

The  lordliest  Fly  that  ever  flew. 

"Ah,  fly  away,"  the  hermit  said, 

"Daylong  among  your  flowers  to  roam; 
Nor  daisies  white  nor  roses  red 

Will  compensate  my  lowly  home." 

True,  all  too  true !     There  came  a  storm 

And  caught  the  Fly  within  its  flood, 
Staining  her  broken  velvet  form 

And  covering  her  wings  with  mud. 

The  Cricket,  sheltered  from  the  rain, 

Chirped,  and  looked  on  with  tranquil  eye; 

For  him  the  thunder  pealed  in  vain, 
The  gale  and  torrent  passed  him  by. 

Then  shun  the  world,  nor  take  your  fill 

Of  any  of  its  joys  or  flowers; 
A  lowly  fire-side,  calm  and  still, 

At  least  will  grant  you  tearless  hours!  * 
1  English  transalation  by  Mr  Stephen  M'Kenna, 

[176] 


THE  CRICKET 

There  I  recognise  my  Cricket.  I  see  him  curling  his 
antennae  on  the  threshold  of  his  burrow,  keeping  him- 
self cool  in  front  and  warm  at  the  back.  He  is  not 
jealous  of  the  Butterfly;  on  the  contrary,  he  pities  her, 
with  that  air  of  mocking  commiseration  we  often  see  in 
those  who  have  houses  of  their  own  when  they  are  talk- 
ing to  those  who  have  none.  Far  from  complaining,  he 
is  very  well  satisfied  both  with  his  house  and  his  violin. 
He  is  a  true  philosopher :  he  knows  the  vanity  of  things 
and  feels  the  charm  of  a  modest  retreat  away  from  the 
riot  of  pleasure-seekers. 

Yes,  the  description  is  about  right,  as  far  as  it  goes. 
But  the  Cricket  is  still  waiting  for  the  few  lines  needed 
to  bring  his  merits  before  the  public;  and  since  La  Fon- 
taine neglected  him,  he  will  have  to  go  on  waiting  a 
long  time. 

To  me,  as  a  naturalist,  the  important  point  in  the  two 
fables  is  the  burrow  on  which  the  moral  is  founded. 
Florian  speaks  of  the  snug  retreat;  the  other  praises  his 
lowly  home.  It  is  the  dwelling,  therefore,  that  above 
all  compels  attention,  even  that  of  the  poet,  who  as  a 
rule  cares  little  for  realities. 

In  this  matter,  indeed,  the  Cricket  is  extraordinary. 
Of  all  our  insects  he  is  the  only  one  who,  when  full- 
grown,  possesses  a  fixed  home,  the  reward  of  his  own 
industry.  During  the  bad  season  of  the  year,  most  of 

[177] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

the  others  burrow  or  skulk  in  some  temporary  refuge, 
a  refuge  obtained  free  of  cost  and  abandoned  without 
regret.  Several  of  them  create  marvels  with  a  view  to 
settling  their  family:  cotton  satchels,  baskets  made  of 
leaves,  towers  of  cement.  Some  live  permanently  in 
ambush,  lying  in  wait  for  their  prey.  The  Tiger-beetle, 
for  instance,  digs  himself  a  perpendicular  hole,  which 
he  stops  up  with  his  flat,  bronze  head.  If  any  other 
insect  steps  on  this  deceptive  trap-door  it  immediately 
tips  up,  and  the  unhappy  wayfarer  disappears  into  the 
gulf.  The  Ant-lion  makes  a  slanting  funnel  in  the 
sand.  Its  victim,  the  Ant,  slides  down  the  slant  and 
is  then  stoned,  from  the  bottom  of  the  funnel,  by  the 
hunter,  who  turns  his  neck  into  a  catapult.  But  these 
are  all  temporary  refuges  or  traps. 

The  laboriously  constructed  home,  in  which  the  insect 
settles  down  with  no  intention  of  moving,  either  in  the 
happy  spring  or  in  the  woeful  winter  season;  the  real 
manor-house,  built  for  peace  and  comfort,  and  not  as 
a  hunting-box  or  a  nursery — this  is  known  to  the  Cricket 
alone.  On  some  sunny,  grassy  slope  he  is  the  owner  of 
a  hermitage.  While  all  the  others  lead  vagabond  lives, 
sleeping  in  the  open  air  or  under  the  casual  shelter  of 
a  dead  leaf  or  a  stone,  or  the  pealing  bark  of  an  old  tree, 
he  is  a  privileged  person  with  a  permanent  address. 

The  making  of  a  home  is  a  serious  problem.     It  has 

[178] 


THE  CRICKET 

been  solved  by  the  Cricket,  by  the  Rabbit,  and  lastly  by 
man.  In  my  neighbourhood  the  Fox  and  the  Badger 
have  holes,  which  are  largely  formed  by  the  irregularities 
of  the  rock.  A  few  repairs,  and  the  dug-out  is  com- 
pleted. The  Rabbit  is  cleverer  than  these,  for  he  builds 
his  house  by  burrowing  wherever  he  pleases,  when  there 
is  no  natural  passage  that  allows  him  to  settle  down  free 
of  all  trouble. 

The  Cricket  is  cleverer  than  any  of  them.  He  scorns 
chance  refuges,  and  always  chooses  the  site  of  his  home 
carefully,  in  well-drained  ground,  with  a  pleasant  sunny 
aspect.  He  refuses  to  make  use  of  ready-made  caves 
that  are  inconvenient  and  rough:  he  digs  every  bit  of 
his  villa,  from  the  entrance-hall  to  the  back-room. 

I  see  no  one  above  him,  in  the  art  of  house-building, 
except  man;  and  even  man,  before  mixing  mortar  to 
hold  stones  together,  or  kneading  clay  to  coat  his  hut 
of  branches,  fought  with  wild  bea-sts  for  a  refuge  in  the 
rocks.  Why  is  it  that  a  special  instinct  is  bestowed  on 
one  particular  creature4?  Here  is  one  of  the  humblest 
of  creatures  able  to  lodge  himself  to  perfection.  He 
has  a  home,  an  advantage  unknown  to  many  civilised 
beings;  he  has  a  peaceful  retreat,  the  first  condition  of 
comfort;  and  no  one  around  him  is  capable  of  settling 
down.  He  has  no  rivals  but  ourselves. 

Whence  does  he  derive  this  gift?  Is  he  favoured 
[179] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

with  special  tools'?  No,  the  Cricket  is  not  an  expert 
in  the  art  of  digging;  in  fact,  one  is  rather  surprised  at 
the  result  when  one  considers  the  feebleness  of  his  means. 

Is  a  home  a  necessity  to  him,  on  account  of  an  excep- 
tionally delicate  skin?  No,  his  near  kinsmen  have  skins 
as  sensitive  as  his,  yet  do  not  dread  the  open  air  at  all. 

Is  the  house-building  talent  the  result  of  his  anatomy? 
Has  he  any  special  organ  that  suggests  it?  No:  in  my 
neighbourhood  there  are  three  other  Crickets  who  are  so 
much  like  the  Field  Cricket  in  appearance,  colour,  and 
structure,  that  at  the  first  glance  one  would  take  them 
for  him.  Of  these  faithful  copies,  not  one  knows  how 
to  dig  himself  a  burrow.  The  Double-spotted  Cricket 
inhabits  the  heaps  of  grass  that  are  left  to  rot  in  damp 
places;  the  Solitary  Cricket  roams  about  the  dry  clods 
turned  up  by  the  gardener's  spade;  the  Bordeaux  Cricket 
is  not  afraid  to  make  his  way  into  our  houses,  where  he 
sings  discreetly,  during  August  and  September,  in  some 
cool,  dark  spot. 

There  is  no  object  in  continuing  these  questions :  the 
answer  would  always  be  No.  Instinct  never  tells  us  its 
causes.  It  depends  so  little  on  an  insect's  stock  of  tools 
that  no  detail  of  anatomy,  nothing  in  the  creature's 
formation,  can  explain  it  to  us  or  make  us  foresee  it. 
These  four  similar  Crickets,  of  whom  only  one  can 

[180] 


THE  FIELD  CRICKET 

Here  is  one  of  the  humblest  of  creatures  able  to  lodge  himself 

to  perfection.    He  has  a  home;  he  has  a  peaceful 

retreat,  the  first  condition  of  comfort 


•    . 

delicate  skin?    No,  his  oeai  i  have  skins 

as  sensitive  as  his,  yet  do  not  dread  the  open  air  at  all. 

Is  the  house-building  talent  the  result  of  his  anatomy'? 

Has  he  any  special  organ  that  suggests  it1?     No:  in  my 

neighbourhood  there  are  three  Miner  Crickets  who  are  so 

mur?«  -        uV:  Field  Cricket  in  appearance,  colour,  and 

lif  ai  the  first  glance  one  would  take  them 

re  faithful  copies,  not  one  knows  how 

^irrow      Thr  Double-spotted  Cricket 

;;!t;ivrr.  ^  of  grass  that  are  left  to  rot  in  damp 

.iitnry  Cricket:  roams  about  the  dry  clods 

irtir.ai  up  iv  the  gardener's  sps<k-;  the  Bordeaux  Cricket 

?  a*r;t"l  to  make  his*  way  mto  our  houses,  where  he 

^iy»£«  di-vvi^etly,  during  AuguM  ^nd  September,  in  some 

c<.«<:'{.  dark  ^tH>r, 

Fhfr>-  ::  no  object  in  continutsg  these  questions:  the 
answer  would  always  be  No,  fmttnct  never  tells  us  its 
causes,  it  tiep^nds  so  httle  on  a^  insects  stock  of  tools 
that  no  detail  of  anatomy,  nothing  in  the  creature's 
foitnation,  can  earplaiu  it  to  us  or  make  us  foresee  it* 
These  tour  similar  Crickets,  of  wfeom  only  one 

[180] 


THE  CRICKET 

burrow,  are  enough  to  show  us  our  ignorance  of  the 
origin  of  instinct. 

Who  does  not  know  the  Cricket's  house?  Who  has 
not,  as  a  child  playing  in  the  fields,  stopped  in  front  of 
the  hermit's  cabin?  However  light  your  footfall,  he 
has  heard  you  coming,  and  has  abruptly  withdrawn  to 
the  very  bottom  of  his  hiding-place.  When  you  arrive, 
the  threshold  of  the  house  is  deserted. 

Every  one  knows  the  way  to  bring  out  the  skulker. 
You  insert  a  straw  and  move  it  gently  about  the  burrow. 
Surprised  at  what  is  happening  above,  the  tickled  and 
teased  Cricket  ascends  from  his  back  room;  he  stops  in  the 
passage,  hesitates,  and  waves  his  delicate  antennae  inquir- 
ingly. He  comes  to  the  light,  and,  once  outside,  he  is 
easy  to  catch,  since  these  events  have  puzzled  his  poor 
head.  Should  he  be  missed  at  the  first  attempt  he  may  be- 
come suspicious  and  refuse  to  appear.  In  that  case  he  can 
be  flooded  out  with  a  glass  of  water. 

Those  were  adorable  times  when  we  were  children,  and 
hunted  Crickets  along  the  grassy  paths,  and  put  them  in 
cages,  and  fed  them  on  a  leaf  of  lettuce.  They  all  come 
back  to  me  to-day,  those  times,  as  I  search  the  burrows  for 
subjects  to  study.  They  seem  like  yesterday  when  my 
companion,  little  Paul,  an  expert  in  the  use  of  the  straw, 
springs  up  suddenly  after  a  long  trial  of  skill  and 

[181] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

patience,  and  cries  excitedly:     "I've  got  him!     I've  got 
him!" 

Quick,  here's  a  bag!  In  you  go,  my  little  Cricket! 
.You  shall  be  petted  and  pampered,  but  you  must  teach  us 
something,  and  first  of  all  you  must  show  us  your  house. 

II 

HIS   HOUSE 

It  is  a  slanting  gallery  in  the  grass,  on  some  sunny 
bank  which  soon  dries  after  a  shower.  It  is  nine  inches 
long  at  most,  hardly  as  thick  as  one's  finger,  and  straight 
or  bent  according  to  the  nature  of  the  ground.  As  a 
rule,  a  tuft  of  grass  half  conceals  the  home,  serving  as 
a  porch  and  throwing  the  entrance  discreetly  into  shadow. 
When  the  Cricket  goes  out  to  browse  upon  the  surround- 
ing turf  he  does  not  touch  this  tuft.  The  gently 
sloping  threshold,  carefully  raked  and  swept,  extends 
for  some  distance ;  and  this  is  the  terrace  on  which,  when 
everything  is  peaceful  round  about,  the  Cricket  sits  and 
scrapes  his  fiddle. 

The  inside  of  the  house  is  devoid  of  luxury,  with 
bare  and  yet  not  coarse  walls.  The  inhabitant  has 
plenty  of  leisure  to  do  away  with  any  unpleasant  rough- 
ness. At  the  end  of  the  passage  is  the  bedroom,  a  little 
more  carefully  smoothed  than  the  rest,  and  slightly 
wider.  All  said,  it  is  a  very  simple  abode,  exceedingly 

[182] 


THE  CRICKET 

clean,  free  from  damp,  and  conforming  to  the  rules  of 
hygiene.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  an  enormous  under- 
taking, a  gigantic  tunnel,  when  we  consider  the  modest 
tools  with  which  the  Cricket  has  to  dig.  If  we  wish  to 
know  how  he  does  it,  and  when  he  sets  to  work,  we  must 
go  back  to  the  time  when  the  egg  is  laid. 

The  Cricket  lays  her  eggs  singly  in  the  soil,  like  the 
Decticus,  at  a  depth  of  three-quarters  of  an  inch.  She 
arranges  them  in  groups,  and  lays  altogether  about  five 
or  six  hundred.  The  egg  is  a  little  marvel  of  mechan- 
ism. After  the  hatching  it  appears  as  an  opaque  white 
cylinder,  with  a  round  and  very  regular  hole  at  the  top. 
To  the  edge  of  this  hole  is  fastened  a  cap,  like  a  lid.  In- 
stead of  bursting  open  anyhow  under  the  thrusts  of  the 
larva  within,  it  opens  of  its  own  accord  along  a  circular 
line — a  specially  prepared  line  of  least  resistance. 

About  a  fortnight  after  the  egg  is  laid,  two  large, 
round,  rusty-black  dots  darken  the  front  end.  A  little 
way  above  these  two  dots,  right  at  the  top  of  the  cylinder, 
you  see  the  outline  of  a  thin  circular  swelling.  This 
is  the  line  where  the  shell  is  preparing  to  break  open. 
Soon  the  transparency  of  the  egg  allows  one  to  see  the 
delicate  markings  of  the  tiny  creature's  segments.  Now 
is  the  time  to  be  on  the  watch,  especially  in  the  morning. 

Fortune  loves  the  persevering,  and  if  we  pay  constant 
visits  to  the  eggs  we  shall  be  rewarded.  All  round  the 
swelling,  where  the  resistance  of  the  shell  has  gradually 

[183] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

been  overcome,  the  end  of  the  egg  becomes  detached. 
Being  pushed  back  by  the  forehead  of  the  little  creature 
within,  it  rises  and  falls  to  one  side  like  the  top  of  a  tiny 
scent-bottle.  The  Cricket  pops  out  like  a  Jack-in-the- 
box. 

When  he  is  gone  the  shell  remains  distended,  smooth, 
intact,  pure  white,  with  the  cap  or  lid  hanging  from  the 
opening.  A  bird's  egg  breaks  clumsily  under  the  blows 
of  a  wart  that  grows  for  the  purpose  at  the  end  of  the 
Chick's  beak;  the  Cricket's  egg  is  more  ingeniously  made, 
and  opens  like  an  ivory  case.  The  thrust  of  the  crea- 
ture's head  is  enough  to  work  the  hinge. 

I  said  above  that,  when  the  lid  is  lifted,  a  young 
Cricket  pops  out;  but  this  is  not  quite  accurate.  What 
appears  is  the  swaddled  grub,  as  yet  unrecognisable  in 
a  tight-fitting  sheath.  The  Decticus,  you  will  remember, 
who  is  hatched  in  the  same  way  under  the  soil,  wears  a 
protective  covering  during  his  journey  to  the  surface. 
The  Cricket  is  related  to  the  Decticus,  and  therefore 
wears  the  same  livery,  although  in  point  of  fact  he  does 
not  need  it.  The  egg  of  the  Decticus  remains  under- 
ground for  eight  months,  so  the  poor  grub  has  to  fight 
its  way  through  soil  that  has  grown  hard,  and  it  therefore 
needs  a  covering  for  its  long  shanks.  But  the  Cricket 
is  shorter  and  stouter,  and  since  its  egg  is  only  in  the 
ground  for  a  few  days  it  has  nothing  worse  than  a 
powdery  layer  of  earth  to  pass  through.  For  these 


THE  CRICKET 

reasons  it  requires  no  overall,  and  leaves  it  behind  in 
the  shell. 

As  soon  as  he  is  rid  of  his  swaddling-clothes  the  young 
Cricket,  pale  all  over,  almost  white,  begins  to  battle  with 
the  soil  overhead.  He  hits  out  with  his  mandibles;  he 
sweeps  aside  and  kicks  behind  him  the  powdery  earth, 
which  offers  no  resistance.  Very  soon  he  is  on  the  sur- 
face, amidst  the  joys  of  the  sunlight  and  the  perils  of 
conflict  with  his  fellow-creatures — poor  feeble  mite  that 
he  is,  hardly  larger  than  a  Flea. 

By  the  end  of  twenty-four  hours  he  has  turned  into 
a  magnificent  blackamoor,  whose  ebon  hue  vies  with  that 
of  the  full-grown  insect.  All  that  remains  of  his  origi- 
nal pallor  is  a  white  sash  that  girds  his  chest.  Very 
nimble  and  alert,  he  sounds  the  surrounding  air  with  his 
long,  quivering  antennae,  and  runs  and  jumps  about  with 
great  impetuosity.  Some  day  he  will  be  too  fat  to  in- 
dulge is  such  antics. 

And  now  we  see  why  the  mother  Cricket  lays  so  many 
eggs.  It  is  because  most  of  the  young  ones  are  doomed 
to  death.  They  are  massacred  in  huge  numbers  by  other 
insects,  and  especially  by  the  little  Grey  Lizard  and  the 
Ant.  The  latter,  loathsome  freebooter  that  she  is, 
hardly  leaves  me  a  Cricket  in  my  garden.  She  snaps 
up  the  poor  little  creatures  and  gobbles  them  down  at 
frantic  speed. 

Oh,  the  execrable  wretch!     And  to  think  that  we 

[185] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

place  the  Ant  in  the  front  rank  of  insects!  Books  are 
written  in  her  honour,  and  the  stream  of  praise  never 
runs  dry.  The  naturalists  hold  her  in  great  esteem;  and 
add  daily  to  her  fame.  It  would  seem  that  with  animals, 
as  with  men,  the  surest  way  to  attract  attention  is  to 
do  harm  to  others. 

Nobody  asks  about  the  Beetles  who  do  such  valuable 
work  as  scavengers,  whereas  everybody  knows  the  Gnat, 
that  drinker  of  men's  blood;  the  Wasp,  that  hot-tempered 
swashbuckler,  with  her  poisoned  dagger;  and  the  Ant, 
that  notorious  evil-doer  who,  in  our  southern  villages, 
saps  and  imperils  the  rafters  of  a  dwelling  as  cheerfully 
as  she  eats  a  fig. 

The  Ant  massacres  the  Crickets  in  my  garden  so 
thoroughly  that  I  am  driven  to  look  for  them  outside  the 
enclosure.  In  August,  among  the  fallen  leaves,  where 
the  grass  has  not  been  wholly  scorched  by  the  sun,  I 
find  the  young  Cricket,  already  rather  big,  and  now  black 
all  over,  with  not  a  vestige  of  his  white  girdle  remaining. 
At  this  period  of  his  life  he  is  a  vagabond :  the  shelter  of 
a  dead  leaf  or  a  flat  stone  is  enough  for  him. 

Many  of  those  who  survived  the  raids  of  the  Ants  now 
fall  victims  to  the  Wasp,  who  hunts  down  the  wanderers 
and  stores  them  underground.  If  they  would  but  dig 
their  dwellings  a  few  weeks  before  the  usual  time  they 
would  be  saved;  but  they  never  think  of  it.  They  are 
faithful  to  their  ancient  customs. 

[186] 


THE  CRICKET 

It  is  at  the  close  of  October,  when  the  first  cold  weather 
threatens,  that  the  burrow  is  taken  in  hand.  The  work 
is  very  simple,  if  I  may  judge  by  my  observation  of  the 
caged  insect.  The  digging  is  never  done  at  a  bare  point 
in  the  pan,  but  always  under  the  shelter  of  some  withered 
lettuce-leaf,  a  remnant  of  the  food  provided.  This 
takes  the  place  of  the  grass  tuft  that  seems  indispensable 
to  the  secrecy  of  the  home. 

The  miner  scrapes  with  his  fore-legs,  and  uses  the 
pincers  of  his  mandibles  to  pull  out  the  larger  bits  of 
gravel.  I  see  him  stamping  with  his  powerful  hind- 
legs,  furnished  with  a  double  row  of  spikes;  I  see  him 
raking  the  rubbish,  sweeping  it  backwards  and  spreading 
it  slantwise.  There  you  have  the  whole  process. 

The  work  proceeds  pretty  quickly  at  first.  In  the 
yielding  soil  of  my  cages  the  digger  disappears  under- 
ground after  a  spell  that  lasts  a  couple  of  hours.  He 
returns  to  the  entrance  at  intervals,  always  backwards 
and  always  sweeping.  Should  he  be  overcome  with 
fatigue  he  takes  a  rest  on  the  threshold  of  his  half- 
finished  home,  with  his  head  outside  and  his  antennae 
waving  feebly.  He  goes  in  again,  and  resumes  work 
with  pinchers  and  rakes.  Soon  the  periods  of  rest  be- 
come longer,  and  wear  out  my  patience. 

The  most  urgent  part  of  the  work  is  done.  Once 
the  hole  is  a  couple  of  inches  deep,  it  suffices  for  the  needs 
of  the  moment.  The  rest  will  be  a  long  affair,  carried 

[187] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

out  in  a  leisurely  way,  a  little  one  day  and  a  little  the 
next:  the  hole  will  be  made  deeper  and  wider  as  the 
weather  grows  colder  and  the  insect  larger.  Even  in 
winter,  if  the  temperature  be  mild  and  the  sun  shining 
on  the  entrance  to  the  dwelling,  it  is  not  unusual  to  see 
the  Cricket  shooting  out  rubbish.  Amid  the  joys  of 
spring  the  upkeep  of  the  building  still  continues.  It  is 
constantly  undergoing  improvements  and  repairs  until 
the  owner's  death. 

When  April  ends  the  Cricket's  song  begins;  at  first 
in  rare  and  shy  solos,  but  soon  in  a  general  symphony  in 
which  each  clod  of  turf  boasts  its  performer.  I  am  more 
than  inclined  to  place  the  Cricket  at  the  head  of  the 
spring  choristers.  In  our  waste-lands,  when  the  thyme 
and  lavender  are  gaily  flowering,  the  Crested  Lark  rises 
like  a  lyrical  rocket,  his  throat  swelling  with  notes,  and 
from  the  sky  sheds  his  sweet  music  upon  the  fallows. 
Down  below  the  Crickets  chant  the  responses.  Their 
song  is  monotonous  and  artless,  but  well  suited  in  its 
very  lack  of  art  to  the  simple  gladness  of  reviving  life. 
It  is  the  hosanna  of  the  awakening,  the  sacred  alleluia 
understood  by  swelling  seed  and  sprouting  blade.  In 
this  duet  I  should  award  the  palm  to  the  Cricket.  His 
numbers  and  his  unceasing  note  deserve  it.  Were  the 
Lark  to  fall  silent,  the  fields  blue-grey  with  lavender, 
swinging  its  fragrant  censors  before  the  sun,  would  still 

[188] 


THE  CRICKET 

receive  from  this  humble  chorister  a  solemn  hymn  of 
praise. 

in 

HIS  MUSICAL-BOX 

In  steps  Science,  and  says  to  the  Cricket  bluntly : 

"Show  us  your  musical-box." 

Like  all  things  of  real  value,  it  is  very  simple.  It  is 
based  on  the  same  principle  as  that  of  the  Grasshoppers : 
a  bow  with  a  hook  to  it,  and  a  vibrating  membrane. 
The  right  wing-case  overlaps  the  left  and  covers  it  almost 
completely,  except  where  it  folds  back  sharply  and  en- 
cases the  insect's  side.  It  is  the  opposite  arrangement  to 
that  which  we  find  in  the  Green  Grasshopper,  the  Decti- 
cus,  and  their  kinsmen.  The  Cricket  is  right-handed, 
the  others  left-handed. 

The  two  wing-cases  are  made  in  exactly  the  same  way. 
To  know  one  is  to  know  the  other.  They  lie  flat  on  the 
insect's  back,  and  slant  suddenly  at  the  side  in  a  right- 
angled  fold,  encircling  the  body  with  a  delicately  veined 
pinion. 

If  you  hold  one  of  these  wing-cases  up  to  the  light 
you  will  see  that  is  it  a  very  pale  red,  save  for  two  large 
adjoining  spaces;  a  larger,  triangular  one  m  front,  and 
a  smaller,  oval  one  at  the  back.  They  are  crossed  by 

[189] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

faint  wrinkles.  These  two  spaces  are  the  sounding- 
boards,  or  drums.  The  skin  is  finer  here  than  elsewhere, 
and  transparent,  though  of  a  somewhat  smoky  tint. 

At  the  hinder  edge  of  the  front  part  are  two  curved, 
parallel  veins,  with  a  cavity  between  them.  This  cavity 
contains  five  or  six  little  black  wrinkles  that  look  like 
the  rungs  of  a  tiny  ladder.  They  supply  friction :  they 
intensify  the  vibration  by  increasing  the  number  of 
points  touched  by  the  bow. 

On  the  lower  surface  one  of  the  two  veins  that  sur- 
round the  cavity  of  the  rungs  becomes  a  rib  cut  into  the 
shape  of  a  hook.  This  is  the  bow.  It  is  provided  with 
about  a  hundred  and  fifty  triangular  teeth  of  exquisite 
geometrical  regularity. 

It  is  a  fine  instrument  indeed.  The  hundred  and 
fifty  teeth  of  the  bow,  biting  into  the  rungs  of  the  oppo- 
site wing-case,  set  the  four  drums  in  motion  at  one  and 
the  same  time,  the  lower  pair  by  direct  friction,  the  upper 
pair  by  the  shaking  of  the  friction-apparatus.  What  a 
rush  of  sound !  The  Cricket  with  his  four  drums  throws 
his  music  to  a  distance  of  some  hundreds  of  yards. 

He  vies  with  the  Cicada*  in  shrillness,  without  having 
the  latter's  disagreeable  harshness.  And:  better  still: 
this  favoured  creature  knows  how  to  modulate  his  song. 
The  wing-cases,  as  I  said,  extend  over  each  side  in  a  wide 
fold.  These  are  the  dampers  which,  lowered  to  a 
greater  or  less  depth,  alter  the  intensity  of  the  sound. 

[190] 


THE  CRICKET 

According  to  the  extent  of  their  contact  with  the  soft 
body  of  the  Cricket  they  allow  him  to  sing  gently  at  one 
time  and  fortissimo  at  another. 

The  exact  similarity  of  the  two  wing-cases  is  worthy 
of  attention.  I  can  see  clearly  the  function  of  the  upper 
bow,  and  the  four  sounding-spaces  which  sets  it  in 
motion ;  but  what  is  the  good  of  the  lower  one,  the  bow 
on  the  left  wing?  Not  resting  on  anything,  it  has 
nothing  to  strike  with  its  hook,  which  is  as  carefully 
toothed  as  the  other.  It  is  absolutely  useless,  unless  the 
apparatus  can  invert  the  order  of  its  two  parts,  and  place 
that  above  which  is  below.  If  that  could  be  done,  the 
perfect  symmetry  of  the  instrument  is  such  that  the 
mechanism  would  be  the  same  as  before,  and  the  insect 
would  be  able  to  play  with  the  bow  that  is  at  present 
useless.  The  lower  fiddlestick  would  become  the  upper, 
and  the  tune  would  be  the  same. 

I  suspected  at  first  that  the  Cricket  could  use  both 
bows,  or  at  least  that  there  were  some  who  were  per- 
manently left-handed.  But  observation  has  convinced 
me  of  the  contrary.  All  the  Crickets  I  have  examined— 
and  they  are  many — without  a  single  exception  carried 
the  right  wing-case  above  the  left. 

I  even  tried  to  bring  about  by  artificial  means  what 
Nature  refused  to  show  me.  Using  my  forceps,  very 
gently  of  course,  and  without  straining  the  wing-cases, 
I  made  these  overlap  the  opposite  way.  It  is  easily  done 

[190 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

with  a  little  skill  and  patience.  Everything  went  well : 
there  was  no  dislocation  of  the  shoulders,  the  membranes 
were  not  creased. 

I  almost  expected  the  Cricket  to  sing,  but  I  was  soon 
undeceived.  He  submitted  for  a  few  moments;  but 
then,  finding  himself  uncomfortable,  he  made  '-an  effort 
and  restored  his  instrument  to  its  usual  position.  In 
vain  I  repeated  the  operation:  the  Cricket's  obstinacy 
triumphed  over  mine. 

Then  I  thought  I  would  make  the  attempt  while  the 
wing-cases  were  quite  new  and  plastic,  at  the  moment 
when  the  larva  casts  its  skin.  I  secured  one  at  the  point 
of  being  transformed.  At  this  stage  the  future  wings 
and  wing-cases  form  four  tiny  flaps,  which,  by  their  shape 
and  scantiness,  and  by  the  way  they  stick  out  in  different 
directions,  remind  me  of  the  short  jackets  worn  by  the 
Auvergne  cheesemakers.  The  larva  cast  off  these  gar- 
ments before  my  eyes. 

The  wing-cases  developed  bit  by  bit,  and  opened  out. 
There  was  no  sign  to  tell  me  which  would  overlap  the 
other.  Then  the  edges  touched :  a  few  moments  longer 
and  the  right  would  be  over  the  left.  This  was  the  time 
to  intervene. 

With  a  straw  I  gently  changed  the  position,  bringing 
the  left  edge  over  the  right.  In  spite  of  some  protest 
from  the  insect  I  was  quite  successful:  the  left  wing- 
case  pushed  forward,  though  only  very  little.  Then  I 

[192] 


THE  CRICKET 

left  it  alone,  and  gradually  the  wing-cases  matured  in 
the  inverted  position.  The  Cricket  was  left-handed. 
I  expected  soon  to  see  him  wield  the  fiddlestick  which 
the  members  of  his  family  never  employ. 

On  the  third  day  he  made  a  start.  A  few  brief  grating 
sounds  were  heard— the  noise  of  a  machine  out  of  gear 
shifting  its  parts  back  into  their  proper  order.  Then  the 
tune  began,  with  its  accustomed  tone  and  rhythm. 

Alas,  I  had  been  over-confident  in  my  mischievous 
straw!  I  thought  I  had  created  a  new  type  of  instru- 
mentalist, and  I  had  obtained  nothing  at  all!  The 
Cricket  was  scraping  with  his  right  fiddlestick,  and 
always  would.  With  a  painful  effort  he  had  dislocated 
his  shoulders,  which  I  had  forced  to  harden  in  the  wrong 
way.  He  had  put  back  on  top  that  which  ought  to  be 
on  top,  and  underneath  that  which  ought  to  be  under- 
neath. My  sorry  science  tried  to  make  a  left-handed 
player  of  him.  He  laughed  at  my  devices,  and  settled 
down  to  be  right-handed  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

Enough  of  the  instrument;  let  us  listen  to  the  music. 
The  Cricket  sings  on  the  threshold  of  his  house,  in  the 
cheerful  sunshine,  never  indoors.  The  wing-cases  utter 
their  cri-cri  in  a  soft  tremolo.  It  is  full,  sonorous,  nicely 
cadenced,  and  lasts  indefinitely.  Thus  are  the  leisures 
of  solitude  beguiled  all  through  the  spring.  The  hermit 
at  first  sings  for  his  own  pleasure.  Glad  to  be  alive,  he 
chants  the  praises  of  the  sun  that  shines  upon  him,  the 

[193] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

grass  that  feeds  him,  the  peaceful  retreat  that  harbours 
him.  The  first  object  of  his  bow  is  to  hymn  the  pleasures 
of  life. 

Later  on  he  plays  to  his  mate.  But,  to  tell  the  truth, 
his  attention  is  rewarded  with  little  gratitude ;  for  in  the 
end  she  quarrels  with  him  ferociously,  and  unless  he 
takes  to  flight  she  cripples  him — and  even  eats  him  more 
or  less.  But  indeed,  in  any  case  he  soon  dies.  Even  if 
he  escapes  his  pugnacious  mate,  he  perishes  in  June. 
We  are  told  that  the  music-loving  Greeks  used  to  keep 
Cicadae  in  cages,  the  better  to  enjoy  their  singing.  I 
venture  to  disbelieve  the  story.  In  the  first  place  the 
harsh  clicking  of  the  Cicadse,  when  long  continued  at 
close  quarters,  is  a  torture  to  ears  that  are  at  all  delicate. 
The  Greeks'  sense  of  hearing  was  too  well  trained  to  take 
pleasure  in  such  raucous  sounds  away  from  the  general 
concert  of  the  fields,  which  is  heard  at  a  distance. 

In  the  second  place  it  is  absolutely  impossible  to  bring 
up  Cicadae  in  captivity,  unless  we  cover  over  a  whole 
olive-tree  or  plane-tree.  A  single  day  spent  in  a 
cramped  enclosure  would  make  the  high-flying  insect  die 
of  boredom. 

Is  it  not  possible  that  people  have  confused  the  Cricket 
with  the  Cicada,  as  they  also  do  the  Green  Grasshopper? 
With  the  Cricket  they  would  be  quite  right.  He  is  one 
who  bears  captivity  gaily:  his  stay-at-home  ways  pre- 

[194] 


THE  CRICKET 

dispose  him  to  it.  He  lives  happily  and  whirrs  without 
ceasing  in  a  cage  no  larger  than  a  man's  fist,  provided 
that  he  has  his  lettuce-leaf  every  day.  Was  it  not  he 
whom  the  small  boys  of  Athens  reared  in  little  wire  cages 
hanging  on  a  window-frame4? 

The  small  boys  of  Provence,  and  all  the  South,  have 
the  same  tastes.  In  the  towns  a  Cricket  becomes  the 
child's  treasured  possession.  The  insect,  petted  and 
pampered,  sings  to  him  of  the  simple  joys  of  the  country. 
Its  death  throws  the  whole  household  into  a  sort  of 
mourning. 

The  three  other  Crickets  of  my  neighbourhood  all 
carry  the  same  musical  instrument  as  the  Field  Cricket, 
with  slight  variation  of  detail.  Their  song  is  much 
alike  in  all  cases,  allowing  for  differences  of  size.  The 
smallest  of  the  family,  the  Bordeaux  Cricket,  sometimes 
ventures  into  the  dark  corners  of  my  kitchen,  but  his 
song  is  so  faint  that  it  takes  a  very  attentive  ear  to  hear 
it. 

The  Field  Cricket  sings  during  the  sunniest  hours  of 
the  spring:  during  the  still  summer  nights  we  have  the 
Italian  Cricket.  He  is  a  slender,  feeble  insect,  quite 
pale,  almost  white,  as  beseems  his  nocturnal  habits. 
You  are  afraid  of  crushing  him,  if  you  so  much  as  take 
him  in  your  fingers.  He  lives  high  in  air,  on  shrubs  of 
every  kind,  or  on  the  taller  grasses;  and  he  rarely  de- 

[195] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

scends  to  earth.  His  song,  the  sweet  music  of  the  still, 
hot  evenings  from  July  to  October;  begins  at  sunset  and 
continues  for  the  best  part  of  the  night.  „ 

This  song  is  known  to  everybody  here  in  Provence,  for 
the  smallest  clump  of  bushes  has  its  orchestra.  The 
soft,  slow  gri-i-i  gri-i-i  is  made  more  expressive  by  a 
slight  tremolo.  If  nothing  happens  to  disturb  the  insect 
the  sound  remains  unaltered;  but  at  the  least  noise  the 
musician  becomes  a  ventriloquist.  You  hear  him  quite 
close,  in  front  of  you;  and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  you  hear 
him  fifteen  yards  away.  You  move  towards  the  sound. 
It  is  not  there :  it  comes  from  the  original  place.  No, 
it  doesn't  after  all.  Is  it  over  there  on  the  left,  or  does 
it  come  from  behind?  One  is  absolutely  at  a  loss,  quite 
unable  to  find  the  spot  where  the  music  is  chirping. 

This  illusion  of  varying  distance  is  produced  in  two 
ways.  The  sounds  become  loud  or  soft,  open  or  muffled, 
according  to  the  exact  part  of  the  lower  wing-case  that 
is  pressed  by  the  bow.  And  they  are  also  modified  by 
the  position  of  the  wing-cases.  For  the  loud  sounds 
these  are  raised  to  their  full  height:  for  the  muffled 
sounds  they  are  lowered  more  or  less.  The  pale  Cricket 
misleads  those  who  hunt  for  him  by  pressing  the  edges  of 
his  vibrating  flaps  against  his  soft  body. 

I  know  no  prettier  or  more  limpid  insect-song  than 
his,  heard  in  the  deep  stillness  of  an  August  evening. 
How  often  have  I  lain  down  on  the  ground  among  the 

[196] 


THE  CRICKET 

rosemary  bushes  of  my  harmas,  to  listen  to  the  delightful 
concert! 

,-The  Italian  Cricket  swarms  in  my  enclosure.  Every 
tuft  of  red-flowering  rock-rose  has  its  chorister;  so  has 
every  clump  of  lavender.  The  bushy  arbutus-shrubs, 
the  turpentine-trees,  all  become  orchestras.  And  in  its 
clear  voice,  so  full  of  charm,  the  whole  of  this  little 
world,  from  every  shrub  and  every  branch,  sings  of  the 
gladness  of  life. 

High  up  above  my  head  the  Swan  stretches  its  great 
cross  along  the  Milky  Way:  below,  all  round  me,  the 
insect's  symphony  rises  and  falls.  Infinitesimal  life 
telling  its  joys  makes  me  forget  the  pageant  of  the  stars. 
Those  celestial  eyes  look  down  upon  me,  placid  and  cold, 
but  do  not  stir  a  fibre  within  me.  Why?  They  lack 
the  great  secret — life.  Our  reason  tells  us,  it  is  true, 
that  those  suns  warm  worlds  like  ours;  but  when  all  is 
said,  this  belief  is  no  more  than  a  guess,  it  is  not  a 
certainty. 

In  your  company,  on  the  contrary,  O  my  Cricket,  I 
feel  the  throbbing  of  life,  which  is  the  soul  of  our  lump 
of  clay;  and  that  is  why,  under  my  rosemary-hedge,  I 
give  but  an  absent  glance  at  the  constellation  of  the 
Swan  and  devote  all  my  attention  to  your  serenade !  A 
living  speck — the  merest  dab  of  life — capable  of 
pleasure  and  pain,  is  far  more  interesting  to  me  than  all 
the  immensities  of  mere  matter. 

[197] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  SISYPHUS 

YOU  are  not  tired,  I  hope,  of  hearing  about  the 
Scavenger  Beetles  with  a  talent  for  making 
balls.     I  have  told  you  of  the  Sacred  Beetle 
and  of  the  Spanish  Copris,  and  now  I  wish  to  say  a  few 
words  of  yet  another  of  these  creatures.     In  the  insect 
world  we  meet  with  a  great  many  model  mothers :  it  is 
only  fair,  for  once  to  draw  attention  to  a  good  father. 

Now  a  good  father  is  rarely  seen  except  among  the 
higher  animals.  The  bird  is  excellent  in  this  respect, 
and  the  furred  folk  perform  their  duties  honourably. 
Lower  in  the  scale  of  living  creatures  the  father  is 
generally  indifferent  to  his  family.  Very  few  insects 
are  exceptions  to  this  rule.  This  heartlessness,  which 
would  be  detestable  in  the  higher  ranks  of  the  animal 
kingdom,  where  the  weakness  of  the  young  demands  pro- 
longed care,  is  excusable  among  insect  fathers.  For  the 
robustness  of  the  new-born  insect  enables  it  to  gather 
its  food  unaided,  provided  it  be  in  a  suitable  place. 
When  all  that  the  Pieris  need  do  for  the  safety  of  the 
race  is  to  lay  her  eggs  on  the  leaves  of  a  cabbage,  of  what 
use  would  a  father's  care  be?  The  mother's  botanical 

[198] 


THE  SISYPHUS 

instinct  needs  no  assistance.  At  laying-time  the  other 
parent  would  be  in  the  way. 

Most  insects  adopt  this  simple  method  of  upbringing. 
They  merely  choose  a  dining-room  which  will  be  the 
home  of  the  family  once  it  is  hatched,  or  else  a  place  that 
will  allow  the  young  ones  to  find  suitable  fare  for  them- 
selves. There  is  no  need  for  the  father  in  such  cases. 
He  generally  dies  without  lending  the  least  assistance 
in  the  work  of  setting  up  his  offspring  in  life. 

Things  do  not  always  happen,  however,  in  quite  such 
a  primitive  fashion.  There  are  tribes  that  provide  a 
dowry  for  their  families,  that  prepare  board  and  lodging 
for  them  in  advance.  The  Bees  and  Wasps  in  particu- 
lar are  masters  in  the  industry  of  making  cellars,  jars, 
and  satchels,  in  which  the  ration  of  honey  is  hoarded: 
they  are  perfect  in  the  art  of  creating  burrows  stocked 
with  the  game  that  forms  the  food  of  their  grubs. 

Well,  this  enormous  labour,  which  is  one  of  building 
and  provisioning  combined,  this  toil  in  which  the  insect's 
whole  life  is  spent,  is  done  by  the  mother  alone.  It 
wears  her  out ;  it  utterly  exhausts  her.  The  father  drunk 
with  sunlight,  stands  idle  at  the  edge  of  the  workyard, 
watching  his  plucky  helpmate  at  her  job. 

Why  does  he  not  lend  the  mother  a  helping  hand?  It 
is  now  or  never.  Why  does  he  not  follow  the  example 
of  the  Swallow  couple,  both  of  whom  bring  their  bit  of 
straw,  their  blob  of  mortar  to  the  building  and  their 

[199] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

Midge  to  the  young  ones  ?  He  does  nothing  of  the  kind. 
Possibly  he  puts  forward  his  comparative  weakness  as  an 
excuse.  It  is  a  poor  argument;  for  to  cut  a  disk  out  of 
a  leaf,  to  scrape  some  cotton  from  a  downy  plant,  to 
collect  a  little  bit  of  cement  in  muddy  places  would  not 
overtax  his  strength.  He  could  very  easily  help,  at  any 
rate  as  a  labourer;  he  is  quite  fit  to  gather  materials  for 
the  mother,  with  her  greater  intelligence,  to  fit  in  place. 
The  real  reason  of  his  inactivity  is  sheer  incapability. 

It  is  strange  that  the  most  gifted  of  the  industrial 
insects  should  know  nothing  of  a  father's  duties.  One 
would  expect  the  highest  talents  to  be  developed  in  him 
by  the  needs  of  the  young;  but  he  remains  as  dull-witted 
as  a  Butterfly,  whose  family  is  reared  at  so  small  a  cost. 
We  are  baffled  at  every  turn  by  the  question:  Why  is 
a  particular  instinct  given  to  one  insect  and  denied  to 
another? 

It  baffles  us  so  thoroughly  that  we  are  extremely  sur- 
prised when  we  find  in  the  scavenger  the  noble  qualities 
that  are  denied  to  the  honey-gatherer.  Various  Scaven- 
ger Beetles  are  accustomed  to  help  in  the  burden  of 
housekeeping,  and  know  the  value  of  working  in  double 
harness.  The  Geotrupes  couple,  for  instance,  prepare 
their  larva's  food  together :  the  father  lends  his  mate  the 
assistance  of  his  powerful  press  in  the  manufacture  of 
the  tightly  packed  sausage-shaped  ration.  He  is  a  splen- 

[200] 


THE  SISYPHUS 

did  example  of  domestic  habits,  and  one  extremely  sur- 
prising amid  the  general  egoism. 

To  this  example  my  constant  studies  of  the  subject 
have  enabled  me  to  add  three  others,  all  furnished  by 
the  Guild  of  Scavengers. 

One  of  them  is  the  Sisyphus,  the  smallest  and  most 
zealous  of  all  our  pill-rollers.  He  is  the  liveliest  and 
most  agile  of  them  all,  and  recks  nothing  of  awkward 
somersaults  and  headlong  falls  on  the  impossible  roads 
to  which  his  obstinacy  brings  him  back  again  and  again. 
It  was  in  reference  to  these  wild  gymnastics  that  La- 
treille  gave  him  the  name  of  Sisyphus. 

As  you  know,  that  unhappy  wretch  of  classical  fame 
had  a  terrible  task.  He  was  forced  to  roll  a  huge  stone 
uphill ;  and  each  time  he  succeeded  in  toiling  to  the  top 
of  the  mountain  the  stone  slipped  from  his  grasp  and 
rolled  to  the  bottom.  I  like  this  myth.  It  is  the  his- 
tory of  a  good  many  of  us.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
for  half  a  century  and  more  I  have  painfully  climbed  the 
steep  ascent,  spending  my  strength  recklessly  in  the 
struggle  to  hoist  up  to  safety  that  crushing  burden,  my 
daily  bread.  Hardly  is  the  loaf  balanced  when  it  slips 
off,  slides  down,  and  is  lost  in  the  abyss. 

The  Sisyphus  with  whom  we  are  now  concerned  knows 
none  of  these  bitter  trials.  Untroubled  by  the  steep 
slopes  he  gaily  trundles  his  load,  at  one  time  bread  for 
himself,  at  another  bread  for  his  children.  He  is  very 

[201] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

scarce  in  these  parts;  and  I  should  never  have  managed 
to  secure  a  suitable  number  of  subjects  for  my  studies 
had  it  not  been  for  an  assistant  whom  I  have  already 
mentioned  more  than  once. 

I  speak  of  my  little  son  Paul,  aged  seven.  He  is  my 
enthusiastic  companion  on  my  hunting  expeditions,  and 
knows  better  than  any  one  of  his  age  the  secrets  of  the 
Cicada,  the  Locust,  the  Cricket,  and  especially  the 
Scavenger  Beetle.  Twenty  paces  away  his  sharp  eyes 
will  distinguish  the  real  mound  that  marks  a  burrow 
from  casual  heaps  of  earth.  His  delicate  ears  catch 
the  Grasshopper's  faint  song,  which  is  quite  unheard  by 
me.  He  lends  me  his  sight  and  hearing;  and  I,  in  ex- 
change, present  him  with  ideas,  which  he  receives 
attentively. 

Little  Paul  has  his  own  insect-cages,  in  which  the 
Sacred  Beetle  makes  pears  for  him;  his  own  little  garden, 
no  larger  than  a  pocket-handkerchief,  where  he  grows 
beans,  often  digging  them  up  to  see  if  the  tiny  roots  are 
any  longer;  his  forest  plantation,  in  which  stand  four 
oaks  a  hand's-breadth  high,  still  furnished  on  one  side 
with  the  acorn  that  feeds  them.  It  all  makes  a  welcome 
change  from  grammar,  which  gets  on  none  the  worse  for 
it. 

When  the  month  of  May  is  near  at  hand  Paul  and  I 
get  up  early  one  morning — so  early  that  we  start  without 
our  breakfast — and  we  explore,  at  the  foot  of  the  moun- 

[202] 


THE  SISYPHUS 

tain,  the  meadows  where  the  flocks  have  been.  Here 
we  find  the  Sisyphus.  Paul  is  so  zealous  in  his  search 
that  we  soon  have  a  sufficient  number  of  couples. 

All  that  is  needed  for  their  well-being  is  a  wire-gauze 
cover,  with  a  bed  of  sand  and  a  supply  of  their  food — 
to  obtain  which  we  too  turn  scavengers.  These  creatures 
are  so  small,  hardly  the  size  of  a  cherry-stone !  And  so 
curious  in  shape  withal!  A  dumpy  body,  the  hinder 
end  of  which  is  pointed,  and  very  long  legs,  resembling 
a  Spider's  when  outspread.  The  hind-legs  are  of  amaz- 
ing length,  and  are  curved,  which  is  most  useful  for 
clasping  and  squeezing  the  pellet. 

Soon  the  time  comes  for  establishing  the  family. 
With  equal  zeal  father  and  mother  alike  take  part  in 
kneading,  carting,  and  stowing  away  the  provisions  for 
the  young  ones.  With  the  cleaver  of  the  fore-legs  a 
morsel  of  the  right  size  is  cut  from  the  food  placed  at 
their  disposal.  The  two  insects  work  at  the  piece  to- 
gether, giving  it  little  pats,  pressing  it,  and  shaping  it 
into  a  ball  as  large  as  a  big  pea. 

As  in  the  Sacred  Beetle's  workshop,  the  accurately 
round  shape  is  obtained  without  the  mechanical  trick 
of  rolling  the  ball.  The  material  is  modelled  into  a 
sphere  before  it  is  moved,  before  it  is  even  loosened  from 
its  support.  Here,  once  more,  we  have  an  expert  in 
geometry  familiar  with  the  best  form  for  preserving 

food. 

[203] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

The  ball  is  soon  ready.  It  must  now,  by  vigorous 
rolling,  be  given  the  crust  which  will  protect  the  soft 
stuff  within  from  becoming  too  dry.  The  mother,  who 
can  be  recognised  by  her  slightly  larger  size,  harnesses 
herself  in  the  place  of  honour,  in  front.  With  her  long 
hind-legs  on  the  ground  and  her  fore-legs  on  the  ball, 
she  hauls  it  towards  her,  backwards.  The  father  pushes 
behind  in  the  reverse  position,  head  downwards.  It  is 
precisely  the  same  method  as  that  of  the  Sacred  Beetle 
when  working  in  twos,  but  it  has  another  object.  The 
Sisyphus  team  conveys  a  store  of  food  for  the  grubs, 
whereas  the  big  pill-rollers  trundle  a  banquet  which  they 
themselves  will  eat  up  underground. 

The  couple  start  off  along  the  ground.  They  have 
no  definite  goal,  but  walk  in  a  direct  line,  without  regard 
to  the  obstacles  that  lie  in  the  way.  In  this  backward 
march  the  obstacles  could  not  be  avoided;  but  even  if 
they  were  seen  the  Sisyphus  would  not  try  to  go  round 
them.  For  she  even  makes  obstinate  attempts  to  climb 
the  wire-work  of  my  cage.  This  is  an  arduous  and  im- 
possible task.  Clawing  the  meshes  of  the  gauze  with 
her  hind-legs  the  mother  pulls  the  load  towards  her; 
then,  putting  her  fore-legs  round  it,  she  holds  it  sus- 
pended in  air.  The  father,  finding  nothing  to  stand 
upon,  clings  to  the  ball — encrusts  himself  in  it,  so  to 
speak,  thus  adding  his  weight  to  that  of  the  lump,  and 
taking  no  further  pains.  The  effort  is  too  great  to  last. 

[204] 


THE  SISYPHUS 

The  mother  harnesses  herself  in  the  place  of  honour,  in  front. 

The  father  pushes  behind  in  the  reverse  position, 

head  downwards 


•M\T 

•o^rt 

>*s 

•If  in  the  plsK*  of  honour,  in  front.     With  h 
hind-legs  tm  t&r  ground  and  her  fore-legs  on  the  1 
she  hauls  it  towards  her,  backwards.     The  father  pu^ 
behind  in  ?lw  reverse  position,  head  downwards.     1 
preaselv  rue  ^ime  method  as  that  of  the  Sacred  Be- 
when  working  in  twos,  but  it  has  another  object.     '; 
Sisyphus  fr:mi  conveys  a  store  of  food  for  the  gnib$* 
\vherta*        ;>ig  pill-rollers  trundle  a  banquet  which  they 

u  ill  ear  up  underground, 
Lv.'!e  >tart  otT  along  the  ground.     They  have 
/.roui,  but  walk  in  a  direct  line,  without  regard 
u»  thv  obst,solr«  r)ut  lie  in  the  way.     In  this  backward 
ma*-. i*  'fa'  '-»b-r-«ii:les  could  not  be  avoided;  but  even  if 
«:hey  wn  J  >e«-ri  the  Sisyphus  would  not  try  to  go  round 
rhenr.     i  o    sKe  even  makes  obstinate  attempts  to  climb 
the  vvi:?  -^ork  uf  my  cage.      This  is  an  arduous  and  im- 
possible tusk.     Clawing  the  meshes  of  the  gauze  with 
her  hind-legs  rhe  mother  pulls  the  load  towards  her; 
then,  putting  her  fore-legs  round  it,  she  holds  it  sus- 
in  air.     The  father,  finding  nothing  to  stand 
t  clings  to  the  ball—<mcf lists  liimself  in  it,  so  fo 
,  thus  adding  his  weight  tx*  that  of  the  lump, 
•g  no  further  pains.     Tl^f  dfort  is  too  great 

(ml 


THE  SISYPHUS 

The  ball  and  its  rider,  forming  one  mass,  fall  to  the  floor. 
The  mother,  from  above,  looks  down  for  a  moment  in 
surprise,  and  then  drops  to  recover  the  load  and  renew 
her  impossible  attempt  to  scale  the  side.  After  repeated 
falls  the  climb  is  abandoned. 

Even  on  level  ground  the  carting  is  not  carried  on 
without  difficulty.  At  every  moment  the  load  swerves 
on  some  mound  made  by  a  bit  of  gravel;  and  the  team 
topple  over  and  kick  about,  upside  down.  This  is  a 
trifle,  the  merest  trifle.  These  tumbles,  which  so  often 
fling  the  Sisyphus  on  his  back,  cause  him  no  concern ;  one 
would  even  think  he  liked  them.  After  all,  the  ball  has 
to  be  hardened  and  made  of  the  right  consistency.  And 
this  being  the  case,  bumps  falls,  and  jolts  are  all  part  of 
the  programme.  This  mad  steeple-chasing  goes  on  for 
hours. 

At  last  the  mother,  regarding  the  work  as  completed, 
goes  off  a  little  way  in  search  of  a  suitable  spot.  The 
father  mounts  guard,  squatting  on  the  treasure.  If  his 
companion's  absence  be  unduly  long,  he  relieves  his 
boredom  by  spinning  the  ball  nimbly  between  his  up- 
lifted hind  legs.  He  treats  his  precious  pellet  as  a 
juggler  treats  his  ball.  He  tests  its  perfect  shape  with 
his  curved  legs,  the  branches  of  his  compasses.  No  one 
who  sees  him  frisking  in  that  jubilant  attitude  can  doubt 
his  lively  satisfaction — the  satisfaction  of  a  father  as- 
sured of  his  children's  future. 

[205] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

"It  is  I,"  he  seems  to  say,  "I  who  kneaded  this  round 
loaf,  I  who  made  this  bread  for  my  sons!" 

And  he  lifts  on  high,  for  all  to  see,  this  magnificent 
testimony  to  his  industry. 

Meanwhile  the  mother  has  chosen  a  site  for  the  bur- 
row. A  shallow  pit  is  made,  a  mere  beginning  of  the 
work.  The  ball  is  rolled  near  it.  The  father,  that  vigi- 
lant guardian,  does  not  let  go,  while  the  mother  digs 
with  her  legs  and  forehead.  Soon  the  hollow  is  big 
enough  to  hold  the  pellet.  She  insists  on  having  it  quite 
close  to  her;  she  must  feel  it  bobbing  up  and  down  be* 
hind  her,  on  her  back,  safe  from  parasites,  before  she 
decides  to  go  farther.  She  is  afraid  of  what  might 
happen  to  it  if  it  were  left  on  the  edge  of  the  burrow 
until  the  home  were  completed.  There  are  plenty  of 
Midges  and  other  such  insects  to  grab  it.  One  cannot 
be  too  careful. 

The  ball  therefore  is  inserted,  half  in  and  half  out  of 
the  partly-formed  basin.  The  mother,  underneath,  gets 
her  legs  round  it  and  pulls:  the  father  above,  lets  it 
down  gently,  and  sees  that  the  hole  is  not  choked  up  with 
falling  earth.  All  goes  well.  The  digging  is  resumed 
and  the  descent  continues,  always  with  the  same  caution; 
one  of  the  insects  pulling  the  load,  the  other  regulating 
the  drop  and  clearing  away  anything  that  might  hinder 
the  operation.  A  few  more  efforts,  and  the  ball  dis- 
appears underground  with  the  two  miners.  What 

[206] 


THE  SISYPHUS 

follows  for  some  time  to  come  can  only  be  a  repetition  of 
what  has  already  been  done.  We  must  wait  half  a  day 
or  so. 

If  we  keep  careful  watch  we  shall  see  the  father  come 
up  again  to  the  surface  by  himself,  and  crouch  in  the 
sand  near  the  burrow.  Detained  below  by  duties  in 
which  her  companion  can  be  of  no  assistance  to  her,  the 
mother  usually  postpones  her  appearance  till  the 
morrow.  At  last  she  shows  herself.  The  father  leaves 
the  place  where  he  was  snoozing,  and  joins  her.  The  re- 
united couple  go  back  to  the  spot  where  their  food-stuffs 
are  to  be  found,  and  having  refreshed  themselves  they 
gather  up  more  materials.  The  two  then  set  to  work 
again.  Once  more  they  model,  cart,  and  store  the  ball 
together. 

I  am  delighted  with  this  constancy.  That  it  is  really 
the  rule  I  dare  not  declare.  There  must,  no  doubt,  be 
flighty,  fickle  Beetles.  No  matter :  the  little  I  have  seen 
gives  me  a  high  opinion  of  the  domestic  habits  of  the 
Sisyphus. 

It  is  time  to  inspect  the  burrow.  At  no  great  depth  we 
find  a  tiny  niche,  just  large  enough  to  allow  the  mother 
to  move  round  her  work.  The  smallness  of  the  chamber 
tells  us  that  the  father  cannot  remain  there  for  long. 
When  the  studio  is  ready,  he  must  go  away  to  leave  the 
sculptress  room  to  turn. 

The  contents  of  the  cellar  consist  of  a  single  ball,  a 

[207] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

masterpiece  of  art.  It  is  a  copy  of  the  Sacred  Beetle's 
pear  on  a  very  much  reduced  scale,  its  smallness  making 
the  polish  of  the  surface  and  the  elegance  of  the  curves 
all  the  more  striking.  Its  diameter,  at  the  broadest 
point,  measures  one-half  to  three-quarters  of  an  inch. 

One  more  observation  about  the  Sisyphus.  Six 
couples  under  the  wire-gauze  cover  gave  me  fifty-seven 
pears  containing  one  egg  each — an  average  of  over  nine 
grubs  to  each  couple.  The  Sacred  Beetle  is  far  from 
reaching  this  figure.  To  what  cause  are  we  to  attribute 
this  large  brood  ?  I  can  see  but  one :  the  fact  that  the 
father  works  as  well  as  the  mother.  Family  burdens 
that  would  exceed  the  strength  of  one  are  not  too  heavy 
when  there  are  two  to  bear  them. 


[208] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   CAPRICORN 
THE   GRUB'S    HOME 

AN  eighteenth-century  philosopher,  Condillac, 
describes  an  imaginary  statue,  organised  like  a 
man,  but  with  none  of  a  man's  senses.  He 
then  pictures  the  effect  of  endowing  it  with  the  five 
senses,  one  by  one,  and  the  first  sense  he  gives  it  is  that 
of  smell.  The  statue,  having  no  sense  but  smell,  in- 
hales the  scent  of  a  rose,  and  out  of  that  single  impression 
creates  a  whole  world  of  ideas.  In  my  youth  I  owed 
some  happy  moments  to  that  statue.  I  seemed  to  see  it 
come  to  life  in  that  action  of  the  nostrils,  acquiring 
memory,  concentration,  judgment,  and  other  mental 
qualities,  even  as  still  waters  are  aroused  and  rippled 
by  the  impact  of  a  grain  of  sand.  I  recovered  from  my 
illusion  under  the  teaching  of  my  abler  master  the  animal. 
The  Capricorn  taught  me  that  the  problem  is  more  ob- 
scure than  the  Abbe  Condillac  led  me  to  suppose. 

When  my  winter  supply  of  firewood  is  being  prepared 
for  me  with  wedge  and  mallet,  the  woodman  selects,  by 
my  express  orders,  the  oldest  and  most  ravaged  trunks 

[209] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

in  his  stack.  My  tastes  bring  a  smile  to  his  lips;  he 
wonders  by  what  whimsy  I  prefer  wood  that  is  worm- 
eaten  to  sound  wood,  which  burns  so  much  better.  I 
have  my  views  on  the  subject,  and  the  worthy  man 
submits  to  them. 

A  fine  oak-trunk,  seamed  with  scars  and  gashed  with 
wounds,  contains  many  treasures  for  my  studies.     The 
mallet  drives  home,  the  wedges  bite,  the  wood  splits; 
and  within,  in  the  dry  and  hollow  parts,  are  revealed 
groups  of  various  insects  who  are  capable  of  living 
through  the  cold  season,  and  have  here  taken  up  their 
winter  quarters.     In  the  low-roofed  galleries  built  by 
some  Beetle  the  Osmia  Bee  has  piled  her  cells  one  above 
the  other.     In  the  deserted  chambers  and  vestibules 
Megachiles  have  arranged  their  leafy  jars.     In  the  live 
wood,  filled  with  juicy  sap,  the  larva  of  the  Capricorn, 
the  chief  author  of  the  oak's  undoing,  has  set  up  its  home. 
Truly  they  are  strange  creatures,  these  grubs :  bits  of 
intestines  crawling  about!     In  the  middle  of  Autumn 
I  find  them  of  two  different  ages.     The  older  are  almost 
as  thick  as  one's  finger;  the  others  hardly  attain  the 
diameter  of  a  pencil.     I  find,  in  addition,  the  pupa  or 
nymph  more  or  less  fully  coloured,  and  the  perfect  insect 
ready  to  leave  the  trunk  when  the  hot  weather  comes 
again.     Life  inside  the  wood,  therefore,  lasts  for  three 
years. 

How  is  this  long  period  of  solitude  and  captivity  spent? 
[210] 


THE  CAPRICORN 

In  wandering  lazily  through  the  thickness  of  the  oak,  in 
making  roads  whose  rubbish  serves  as  food.  The  horse 
in  the  book  of  Job  "swallows  the  ground"  in  a  figure  of 
speech:  the  Capricorn's  grub  eats  its  way  literally. 
With  its  carpenter's-gouge— a  strong  black  mandible, 
short  and  without  notches,  but  scooped  into  a  sharp- 
edged  spoon — it  digs  the  opening  of  its  tunnel.  From 
the  piece  cut  out  the  grub  extracts  the  scanty  juices,  while 
the  refuse  accumulates  behind  him  in  heaps.  The  path 
is  devoured  as  it  is  made;  it  is  blocked  behind  as  it  makes 
way  ahead. 

Since  this  harsh  work  is  done  with  the  two  gouges,  the 
two  curved  chisels  of  the  mandibles,  the  Capricorn-grub 
requires  much  strength  in  the  front  part  of  its  body, 
which  therefore  swells  into  a  sort  of  pestle.  The  Bu- 
prestis-grub,  that  other  industrious  carpenter,  adopts  a 
similar  form,  and  even  exaggerates  its  pestle.  The  part 
that  toils  and  carves  hard  wood  requires  to  be  robust;  the 
rest  of  the  body,  which  has  but  to  follow  after,  continues 
slim.  The  essential  thing  is  that  the  implement  of  the 
jaws  should  possess  a  solid  support  and  powerful  ma- 
chinery. The  Capricorn  larva  strengthens  its  chisels 
with  a  stout,  black,  horny  armour  that  surrounds  the 
mouth;  yet,  apart  from  its  skull  and  its  equipment  of 
tools,  this  grub  has  a  skin  as  fine  as  satin  and  as  white 
as  ivory.  This  dead  white  is  caused  by  a  thick  layer  of 
grease,  which  one  would  not  expect  a  diet  of  wood  to 

[211] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

produce  in  the  animal.  True,  it  has  nothing  to  do,  at 
every  hour  of  the  day  and  night,  but  gnaw.  The  quan- 
tity of  wood  that  passes  into  its  stomach  makes  up  for  the 
lack  of  nourishing  qualities. 

The  grub's  legs  can  hardly  be  called  legs  at  all ;  they 
are  mere  suggestions  of  the  legs  the  full-grown  insect 
will  have  by  and  by.  They  are  infinitesimal  in  size, 
and  of  no  use  whatever  for  walking.  They  do  not  even 
touch  the  supporting  surface,  being  kept  off  it  by  the 
plumpness  of  the  chest.  The  organs  by  means  of  which 
the  animal  progresses  are  something  altogether  different. 

The  grub  of  the  Rose-chafer,  with  the  aid  of  the  hairs 
and  pad-like  projections  upon  its  spine,  manages  to 
reverse  the  usual  method  of  walking,  and  to  wriggle 
along  on  its  back.  The  grub  of  the  Capricorn  is  even 
more  ingenious :  it  moves  at  the  same  time  on  its  back 
and  its  stomach.  To  take  the  place  of  its  useless  legs  it 
has  a  walking  apparatus  almost  like  feet,  which  appear, 
contrary  to  every  rule,  on  the  surface  of  its  back. 

On  the  middle  part  of  its  body,  both  above  and  below, 
there  is  a  row  of  seven  four-sided  pads,  which  the  grub 
can  either  expand  or  contract,  making  them  stick  out  or 
lie  flat  at  will.  It  is  by  means  of  these  pads  that  it 
walks.  When  it  wishes  to  move  forwards  it  expands 
the  hinder  pads,  those  on  the  back  as  well  as  those  on  the 
stomach,  and  contracts  its  front  pads.  The  swelling  of 
the  hind  pads  in  the  narrow  gallery  fills  up  the  space,  and 

[212] 


THE  CAPRICORN 

gives  the  grub  something  to  push  against.  At  the  same 
time  the  flattening  of  the  front  pads,  by  decreasing  the 
size  of  the  grub,  allows  it  to  slip  forward  and  take  half 
a  step.  Then,  to  complete  the  step,  the  hind-quarters 
must  be  brought  up  the  same  distance.  With  this  object 
the  front  pads  nil  out  and  provide  support,  while  those 
behind  shrink  and  leave  room  for  the  grub  to  draw  up 
its  hind-quarters. 

With  the  double  support  of  its  back  and  stomach,  with 
alternate  swellings  and  shrinkings,  the  animal  easily 
advances  or  retreats  along  its  gallery,  a  sort  of  mould 
which  the  contents  fill  without  a  gap.  But  if  the  pads 
grip  only  on  one  side  progress  becomes  impossible. 
When  placed  on  the  smooth  wood  of  my  table  the  animal 
wriggles  slowly;  it  lengthens  and  shortens  without  pro- 
gressing by  a  hair's  breadth.  Laid  on  the  surface  of  a 
piece  of  split  oak,  a  rough,  uneven  surface  due  to  the 
gash  made  by  the  wedge,  it  twists  and  writhes,  moves 
the  front  part  of  its  body  very  slowly  from  left  to  right 
and  right  to  left,  lifts  it  a  little,  lowers  it,  and  begins 
again.  This  is  all  it  can  do.  The  rudimentary  legs 
remain  inert  and  absolutely  useless. 

ii 

THE  GRUB'S  SENSATIONS 

Though  the  Capricorn-grub  possesses  these  useless 
legs,  the -germs  of  future  limbs,  there  is  no  sign  of  the 

[213] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

eyes  with  which  the  fully-developed  insect  will  be  richly 
gifted.  The  larva  has  not  the  least  trace  of  any  organs 
of  sight.  What  would  it  do  with  sight,  in  the  murky 
thickness  of  a  tree-trunk?  Hearing  is  likewise  absent. 
In  the  untroubled  silence  of  the  oak's  inmost  heart  the 
sense  of  hearing  would  be  superfluous.  Where  sounds 
are  lacking,  of  what  use  is  the  faculty  of  discerning 
them? 

To  make  the  matter  certain  I  carried  out  some  ex- 
periments. If  split  lengthwise  the  grub's  abode  becomes 
a  half-tunnel,  in  which  I  can  watch  the  occupant's 
doings.  When  left  alone  it  alternately  works  for 
a  while,  gnawing  at  its  gallery,  and  rests  for  awhile, 
fixed  by  its  pads  to  the  two  sides  of  the  tunnel.  I  took 
advantage  of  these  moments  of  rest  to  inquire  into  its 
power  of  hearing.  The  banging  of  hard  bodies,  the  ring 
of  metallic  objects,  the  grating  of  a  file  upon  a  saw,  were 
tried  in  vain.  The  animal  remained  impassive:  not  a 
wince,  not  a  movement  of  the  skin,  no  sign  of  awakened 
attention.  I  succeeded  no  better  when  I  scratched  the 
wood  near  it  with  a  hard  point,  to  imitate  the  sound  of 
some  other  grub  at  work  in  its  neighbourhood.  The  in- 
difference to  my  noisy  tricks  could  be  no  greater  in  a 
lifeless  object.  The  animal  is  deaf. 

Can  it  smell?  Everything  tells  us  that  it  cannot. 
Scent  is  of  assistance  in  the  search  for  food.  But  the 
Capricorn-grub  need  not  go  in  quest  of  eatables.  It 


THE  CAPRICORN 

feeds  on  its  home;  it  lives  on  the  wood  that  gives  it  shel- 
ter. Nevertheless  I  tested  it.  In  a  log  of  fresh  cypress 
wood  I  made  a  groove  of  the  same  width  as  that  of  the 
natural  galleries,  and  I  placed  the  grub  inside  it.  Cy- 
press wood  is  strongly  scented;  it  has  the  smell  charac- 
teristic of  most  of  the  pine  family.  This  resinous  scent, 
so  strange  to  a  grub  that  lives  always  in  oak,  ought  to 
vex  it,  to  trouble  it;  and  it  should  show  its  displeasure 
by  some  kind  of  commotion,  some  attempt  to  get  away. 
It  did  nothing  of  the  kind :  once  it  had  found  the  right 
position  in  the  groove  it  went  to  the  end,  as  far  as  it 
could  go,  and  made  no  further  movement.  Then  I  set 
before  it,  in  its  usual  channel,  a  piece  of  camphor. 
Again  no  effect.  Camphor  was  followed  by  naphtha- 
line. Still  no  result.  I  do  not  think  I  am  going  too  far 
when  I  deny  the  creature  a  sense  of  smell. 

Taste  is  there  no  doubt.  But  such  taste!  The  food 
is  without  variety :  oak,  for  three  years  at  a  stretch,  and 
nothing  else.  What  can  the  grub's  palate  find  to  enjoy 
in  this  monotonous  fare?  The  agreeable  sensation  of 
a  fresh  piece,  oozing  with  sap ;  the  uninteresting  flavour 
of  an  over-dry  piece.  These,  probably,  are  the  only 
changes  in  the  meal. 

There  remains  the  sense  of  touch,  the  universal  pas- 
sive sense  common  to  all  live  flesh  that  quivers  under  the 
goad  of  pain.  The  Capricorn-grub,  therefore,  is  limited 
to  two  senses,  those  of  taste  and  touch,  and  both  of  these 

[215] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

it  possesses  only  in  a  very  small  degree.  It  is  very  little 
better  off  than  Condillac's  statue.  The  imaginary  being 
created  by  the  philosopher  had  one  sense  only,  that  of 
smell,  equal  in  delicacy  to  our  own;  the  real  being,  the 
oak-eater  has  two,  which  are  inferior  even  when  put  to- 
gether to  the  one  sense  of  the  statue.  The  latter  plainly 
perceived  the  scent  of  a  rose,  and  clearly  distinguished 
it  from  any  other. 

A  vain  wish  has  often  come  to  me  in  my  dreams :  to 
be  able  to  think,  for  a  few  minutes,  with  the  brain  of 
my  Dog,  or  to  see  the  world  with  the  eyes  of  a  Gnat. 
How  things  would  change  in  appearance!  But  they 
would  change  much  more  if  understood  only  with  the 
intellect  of  the  grub.  What  has  that  incomplete  crea- 
ture learnt  through  its  senses  of  touch  and  taste?  Very 
little;  almost  nothing.  It  knows  that  the  best  bits  of 
wood  have  a  special  kind  of  flavour,  and  that  the  sides 
of  a  passage,  when  not  carefully  smoothed,  are  painful 
to  the  skin.  This  is  the  limit  of  its  wisdom.  In  com- 
parison with  this,  the  statue  with  the  sensitive  nostrils 
was  a  marvel  of  knowledge.  It  remembered,  compared, 
judged,  and  reasoned.  Can  the  Capricorn-grub  remem- 
ber? Can  it  reason?  I  described  it  a  little  time  ago 
as  a  bit  of  intestine  that  crawls  about.  This  descrip- 
tion gives  an  answer  to  these  questions.  The  grub  has 
the  sensations  of  a  bit  of  intestine,  no  more  and  no  less. 

[216] 


THE  CAPRICORN 


m 


THE  GRUB'S  FORESIGHT 


And  this  half-alive  object,  this  nothing-at-all,  is  cap- 
able of  marvellous  foresight.  It  knows  hardly  anything 
of  the  present,  but  it  sees  very  clearly  into  the  future. 

For  three  years  on  end  the  larva  wanders  about  in  the 
heart  of  the  trunk.  It  goes  up,  goes  down,  turns  to  this 
side  and  that;  it  leaves  one  vein  for  another  of  better 
flavour,  but  without  ever  going  too  far  from  the  inner 
depths,  where  the  temperature  is  milder  than  near  the 
surface,  and  greater  safety  reigns.  But  a  day  is  at  hand 
when  the  hermit  must  leave  its  safe  retreat  and  face  the 
perils  of  the  outer  world.  Eating  is  not  everything, 
after  all ;  we  have  to  get  out  of  this. 

But  how?  For  the  grub,  before  leaving  the  trunk, 
must  turn  into  a  long-horned  Beetle.  And  though  the 
grub,  being  well  equipped  with  tools  and  muscular 
strength,  finds  no  difficulty  in  boring  through  the  wood 
and  going  where  it  pleases,  it  by  no  means  follows  that 
the  coming  Capricorn  has  the  same  powers.  The 
Beetle's  short  spell  of  life  must  be  spent  in  the  open  air. 
Will  it  be  able  to  clear  itself  a  way  of  escape? 

It  is  quite  plain,  at  all  events,  that  the  Capricorn  will 
be  absolutely  unable  to  make  use  of  the  tunnel  bored 
by  the  grub.  This  tunnel  is  a  very  long  and  very  irregu- 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

lar  maze,  blocked  with  great  heaps  of  wormed  wood. 
It  grows  constantly  smaller  and  smaller  as  it  approaches 
the  starting-point,  because  the  larva  entered  the  trunk 
as  slim  as  a  tiny  bit  of  straw,  whereas  to-day  it  is  as 
thick  as  one's  finger.  In  its  three  years'  wanderings  it 
always  dug  its  gallery  to  fit  the  size  of  its  body.  Evi- 
dently the  road  of  the  larva  cannot  be  the  Capricorn's 
way  out.  His  overgrown  antennae,  his  long  legs,  his 
inflexible  armour-plates  would  find  the  narrow,  winding 
corridor  impassable.  The  passage  would  have  to  be 
cleared  of  its  wormed  wood,  and,  moreover,  greatly  en- 
larged. It  would  be  easier  to  attack  the  untouched 
timber  and  dig  straight  ahead.  Is  the  insect  capable  of 
doing  so  ?  I  determined  to  find  out. 

I  made  some  cavities  of  suitable  size  in  some  oak  logs 
that  had  been  chopped  in  two,  and  in  each  of  these  cells 
I  placed  a  Capricorn  that  had  just  been  transformed 
from  the  grub.  I  then  joined  the  two  sides  of  the  logs, 
fastening  them  together  with  wire.  When  June  came 
I  heard  a  sound  of  scraping  inside  the  logs,  and  waited 
anxiously  to  see  if  the  Capricorns  would  appear.  They 
had  hardly  three-quarters  of  an  inch  to  pierce.  Yet  not 
one  came  out.  On  opening  the  logs  I  found  all  my  cap- 
tives dead.  A  pinch  of  sawdust  represented  all  they 
had  done. 

I  had  expected  more  from  their  sturdy  mandibles. 
In  spite  of  their  boring-tools  the  hermits  died  for  lack  of 


THE  CAPRICORN 

skill.  I  tried  enclosing  some  in  reed-stumps,  but  even 
this  comparatively  easy  work  was  too  much  for  them. 
Some  freed  themselves,  but  others  failed. 

Notwithstanding  his  stalwart  appearance  the  Capri- 
corn cannot  leave  the  tree-trunk  by  his  own  unaided 
efforts.  The  truth  is  that  his  way  is  prepared  for  him  by 
the  grub — that  bit  of  intestine. 

Some  presentiment — to  us  an  unfathomable  mystery 
• — causes  the  Capricorn-grub  to  leave  its  peaceful  strong- 
hold in  the  very  heart  of  the  oak  and  wriggle  towards 
the  outside,  where  its  foe  the  Woodpecker  is  quite  likely 
to  gobble  it  up.  At  the  risk  of  its  life  it  stubbornly  digs 
and  gnaws  to  the  very  bark.  It  leaves  only  the  thinnest 
film,  the  slenderest  screen,  between  itself  and  the  world 
at  large.  Sometimes,  even,  the  rash  one  opens  the  door- 
way wide. 

This  is  the  Capricorn's  way  out.  The  insect  has  but 
to  file  the  screen  a  little  with  his  mandibles,  to  bump 
against  it  with  his  forehead,  in  order  to  bring  it  down. 
He  will  even  have  nothing  at  all  to  do  when  the  door- 
way is  open,  as  often  happens.  The  unskilled  car- 
penter, burdened  with  his  extravagant  head-dress,  will 
come  out  from  the  darkness  through  this  opening  when 
the  summer  heat  arrives. 

As  soon  as  the  grub  has  attended  to  the  important 
business  of  making  a  doorway  into  the  world,  it  begins 
to  busy  itself  with  its  transformation  into  a  Beetle. 

[219] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

First,  it  requires  space  for  the  purpose.  So  it  retreats 
some  distance  down  its  gallery,  and  in  the  side  of  the 
passage  digs  itself  a  transformation-chamber  more  sump- 
tuously furnished  and  barricaded  than  any  I  have  ever 
seen.  It  is  a  roomy  hollow  with  curved  walls,  three  to 
four  inches  in  length  and  wider  than  it  is  high.  The 
width  of  the  cell  gives  the  insect  a  certain  degree  of 
freedom  of  movement  when  the  time  comes  for  forcing 
the  barricade,  which  is  more  than  a  close-fitting  case 
would  do. 

The  barricade — a  door  which  the  larva  builds  as  a 
protection  from  danger — is  twofold,  and  often  three- 
fold. Outside,  it  is  a  stack  of  woody  refuse,  of  particles 
of  chopped  timber;  inside,  a  mineral  lid,  a  concave  cover, 
all  in  one  piece,  of  a  chalky  white.  Pretty  often,  but 
not  always,  there  is  added  to  these  two  layers  an  inner 
casing  of  shavings. 

Behind  this  threefold  door  the  larva  makes  its  arrange- 
ments for  its  transformation.  The  sides  of  the  chamber 
are  scraped,  thus  providing  a  sort  of  down  formed  of 
ravelled  woody  fibres,  broken  into  tiny  shreds.  This 
velvety  stuff  is  fixed  on  the  wall,  in  a  thick  coating,  as 
fast  as  it  is  made.  The  chamber  is  thus  padded  through- 
out with  a  fine  swan's-down,  a  delicate  precaution  taken 
by  the  rough  grub  out  of  kindness  for  the  tender  creature 
it  will  become  when  it  has  cast  its  skin. 

Let  us  now  go  back  to  the  most  curious  part  of  the 

[220] 


THE  CAPRICORN 

furnishing,  the  cover  or  inner  door  of  the  entrance.  It 
is  like  an  oval  skull-cap,  white  and  hard  as  chalk,  smooth 
within  and  rough  without,  with  some  resemblance  to 
an  acorn-cup.  The  rough  knots  show  that  the  material 
is  supplied  in  small,  pasty  mouthfuls,  which  become  solid 
outside  in  little  lumps.  The  animal  does  not  remove 
them,  because  it  is  unable  to  get  at  them;  but  the  inside 
surface  is  polished,  being  within  the  grub's  reach.  This 
singular  lid  is  as  hard  and  brittle  as  a  flake  of  limestone. 
It  is,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  composed  solely  of  carbonate 
of  lime,  and  a  sort  of  cement  which  gives  consistency  to 
the  chalky  paste. 

I  am  convinced  that  this  stony  deposit  comes  from  a 
particular  part  of  the  grub's  stomach,  called  the  chylinc 
ventricle.  The  chalk  is  kept  separate  from  the  food, 
and  is  held  in  reserve  until  the  right  time  comes  to  dis- 
charge it.  This  freestone  factory  causes  me  no  astonish- 
ment. It  serves  for  various  chemical  works  in  different 
grubs  when  undergoing  transformation.  Certain  Oil- 
beetles  keep  refuse  in  it,  and  several  kinds  of  Wasps  use 
it  to  manufacture  the  shellac  with  which  they  varnish  the 
silk  of  their  cocoons. 

When  the  exit  way  is  prepared,  and  the  cell  uphol- 
stered in  velvet  and  closed  with  a  threefold  barricade, 
the  industrious  grub  has  finished  its  task.  It  lays  aside 
its  tools,  sheds  its  skin,  and  becomes  a  pupa— weakness 
personified,  in  the  swaddling-clothes  of  a  cocoon.  The 

[221] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

head  is  always  turned  towards  the  door.  This  is  a 
trifling  detail  in  appearance;  but  in  reality  it  is  every- 
thing. To  lie  this  way  or  that  in  the  long  cell  is  a  matter 
of  great  indifference  to  the  grub,  which  is  very  supple, 
turning  easily  in  its  narrow  lodging  and  adopting  what- 
ever position  it  pleases.  The  coming  Capricorn  will  not 
enjoy  the  same  privileges.  Stiffly  encased  in  his  horny 
armour,  he  will  not  be  able  to  turn  from  end  to  end ;  he 
will  not  even  be  capable  of  bending,  if  some  sudden 
curve  should  make  the  passage  difficult.  He  must, 
without  fail,  find  the  door  in  front  of  him,  or  he 
will  perish  in  the  transformation-room.  If  the  grub 
should  forget  this  little  matter,  and  lie  down  to  sleep 
with  its  head  at  the  back  of  the  cell,  the  Capricorn  would 
be  infallibly  lost.  His  cradle  would  become  a  hopeless 
dungeon. 

But  there  is  no  fear  of  this  danger.  The  "bit  of  in- 
testine" knows  too  much  about  the  future  to  neglect  the 
formality  of  keeping  its  head  at  the  door.  At  the  end 
of  spring  the  Capricorn,  now  in  possession  of  his  full 
strength,  dreams  of  the  joys  of  the  sun,  of  the  festivals 
of  light.  He  wants  to  get  out. 

What  does  he.  find  before  him*?  First,  a  heap  of 
filings  easily  dispersed  with  his  claws;  next,  a  stone  lid 
which  he  need  not  even  break  into  fragments,  for  it  comes 
undone  in  one  piece.  It  is  removed  from  its  frame  with 
a  few  pushes  of  the  forehead,  a  few  tugs  of  the  claws. 

[222] 


THE  CAPRICORN 

In  fact,  I  find  the  lid  intact  on  the  threshold  of  the 
abandoned  cell.  Last  comes  a  second  mass  of  woody 
remnants  as  easy  to  scatter  as  the  first.  The  road  is  now 
free :  the  Capricorn  has  but  to  follow  the  wide  vestibule, 
which  will  lead  him,  without  any  possibility  of  mistake, 
to  the  outer  exit.  Should  the  doorway  not  be  open,  all 
that  he  has  to  do  is  to  gnaw  through  a  thin  screen,  an 
easy  task.  Behold  him  outside,  his  long  antennae  quiver- 
ing with  excitement. 

What  have  we  learnt  from  him?  Nothing  from  him, 
but  much  from  his  grub.  This  grub,  so  poor  in  organs 
of  sensation,  gives  us  much  to  think  about.  It  knows 
that  the  coming  Beetle  will  not  be  able  to  cut  himself 
a  road  through  the  oak,  and  it  therefore  opens  one  for 
him  at  its  own  risk  and  peril.  It  knows  that  the  Capri- 
corn, in  his  stiff  armour,  will  never  be  able  to  turn  round 
and  make  for  the  opening  of  the  cell ;  and  it  takes  care  to 
fall  into  its  sleep  of  transformation  with  its  head  towards 
the  door.  It  knows  how  soft  the  pupa's  flesh  will  be, 
and  it  upholsters  the  bedroom  with  velvet.  It  knows 
that  the  enemy  is  likely  to  break  in  during  the  slow  work 
of  the  transformation,  and  so,  to  make  a  protection 
against  attack,  it  stores  lime  inside  its  stomach.  It 
knows  the  future  with  a  clear  vision,  or,  to  be  accurate, 
it  behaves  as  if  it  knew  the  future. 

What  makes  it  act  in  this  way?  It  is  certainly  not 
taught  by  the  experiences  of  its  senses.  What  does  it 

[223] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

know  of  the  outside  world?  I  repeat — as  much  as  a 
bit  of  intestine  can  know.  And  this  senseless  creature 
astounds  us!  I  regret  that  the  philosopher  Cbndillac, 
instead  of  creating  a  statue  that  could  smell  a  rose,  did 
not  gift  it  with  an  instinct.  How  soon  he  would  have 
seen  that  the  animals — including  man — have  powers 
quite  apart  from  the  senses;  inspirations  that  are  born 
with  them,  and  are  not  the  result  of  learning. 

This  curious  life  and  this  marvellous  foresight  are  not 
confined  to  one  kind  of  grub.  Besides  the  Capricorn  of 
the  Oak  there  is  the  Capricorn  of  the  Cherry-tree.  In 
appearance  the  latter  is  an  exact  copy  of  the  former,  on 
a  much  smaller  scale;  but  the  little  Capricorn  has  dif- 
ferent tastes  from  its  large  kinsman's.  If  we  search  the 
heart  of  the  cherry-tree  it  does  not  show  us  a  single  grub 
anywhere :  the  entire  population  lives  between  the  bark 
and  the  wood.  This  habit  is  only  varied  when  trans- 
formation is  at  hand.  Then  the  grub  of  the  cherry-tree 
leaves  the  surface,  and  scoops  out  a  cavity  at  a  depth  of 
about  two  inches.  Here  the  walls  are  bare:  they  are 
not  lined  with  the  velvety  fibres  dear  to  the  Cap- 
ricorn of  the  Oak.  The  entrance  is  blocked,  however, 
by  sawdust,  and  a  chalky  lid  similar  to  the  other  except 
in  point  of  size.  Need  I  add  that  the  grub  lies  down 
and  goes  to  sleep  with  his  head  against  the  door?  Not 
one  forgets  to  take  this  precaution. 

There  is  also  a  Saperda  of  the  Poplar  and  a  Saperda 
[224] 


THE  CAPRICORN 

of  the  Cherry-tree.  They  have  the  same  organisation 
and  the  same  tools;  but  the  former  follows  the  methods 
of  the  Capricorn  of  the  Oak,  while  the  latter  imitates  the 
Capricorn  of  the  Cherry-tree. 

The  poplar-tree  is  also  inhabited  by  the  Bronze  Bu- 
prestis,  which  takes  no  defensive  measures  before  going 
to  sleep.  It  makes  no  barricade,  no  heap  of  shavings. 
And  in  the  apricot-tree  the  Nine-spotted  Buprestis  be- 
haves in  the  same  way.  In  this  case  the  grub  is  inspired 
by  its  intuitions  to  alter  its  plan  of  work  to  suit  the 
coming  Beetle.  The  perfect  insect  is  a  cylinder;  the 
grub  is  a  strap,  a  ribbon.  The  former,  which  wears 
unyielding  armour,  needs  a  cylindrical  passage;  the 
latter  needs  a  very  low  tunnel,  with  a  roof  that  it  can 
reach  with  the  pads  on  its  back.  The  grub  therefore 
changes  its  manner  of  boring:  yesterday  the  gallery, 
suited  to  a  wandering  life  in  the  thickness  of  the  wood, 
was  a  wide  burrow  with  a  very  low  ceiling,  almost  a  slot ; 
to-day  the  passage  is  cylindrical.  A  gimlet  could  not 
bore  it  more  accurately.  This  sudden  change  in  the 
system  of  roadmaking  on  behalf  of  the  coming  insect 
once  more  shows  us  the  foresight  of  this  "bit  of  intes- 
tine." 

I  could  tell  you  of  many  other  wood-eaters.  Their 
tools  are  the  same;  yet  each  species  displays  special 
methods,  tricks  of  the  trade  that  have  nothing  to  do  with 
the  tools.  These  grubs,  then,  like  so  many  insects,  show 

[225] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

us  that  instinct  is  not  made  by  the  tools,  so  to  speak, 
but  that  the  same  tools  may  be  used  in  various  ways. 

To  continue  the  subject  would  be  monotonous.  The 
general  rule  stands  out  very  clearly  from  these  facts: 
the  wood-eating  grubs  prepare  the  path  of  deliverance 
for  the  perfect  insect,  which  will  merely  have  to  pass 
a  barricade  of  shavings  or  pierce  a  screen  of  bark.  By 
a  curious  reversal  of  the  usual  state  of  things,  infancy 
is  here  the  season  of  energy,  of  strong  tools,  of  stubborn 
work;  mature  age  is  the  season  of  leisure,  of  indus- 
trial ignorance,  of  idle  diversions,  without  trade  or  pro- 
fession. The  providence  of  the  human  infant  is  the 
mother;  here  the  baby  grub  is  the  mother's  providence. 
With  its  patient  tooth,  which  neither  the  peril  of  the 
outside  world  nor  the  difficult  task  of  boring  through 
hard  wood  is  able  to  discourage,  it  clears  away  for  her 
to  the  supreme  delights  of  the  sun. 


[226] 


CHAPTER  XV 


LOCUSTS 


THEIR  VALUE 


MIND  you're  ready,  children,  to-morrow  morn- 
ing before  the  sun  gets  too  hot.  We're 
going  Locust-hunting." 

This  announcement  throws  the  household  into  great 
excitement  at  bed-time.  What  do  my  little  helpers  see 
in  their  dreams'?  Blue  wings,  red  wings,  suddenly 
flung  out  like  fans;  long  saw-toothed  legs,  pale  blue  or 
pink,  which  kick  out  when  we  hold  their  owners  in  our 
fingers;  great  shanks  that  act  like  springs,  and  make 
the  insect  leap  forward  as  though  shot  from  a  catapult. 

If  there  be  one  peaceful  and  safe  form  of  hunting, 
one  in  which  both  old  age  and  childhood  can  share,  it 
is  Locust-hunting.  What  delicious  mornings  we  owe  to 
it!  How  delightful,  when  the  mulberries  are  ripe,  to 
pick  them  from  the  bushes !  What  excursions  we  have 
had,  on  the  slopes  covered  with  thin,  tough  grass,  burnt 
yellow  by  the  sun!  I  have  vivid  memories  of  such 
mornings,  and  my  children  will  have  them  too. 

[227] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

Little  Paul  has  nimble  legs,  a  ready  hand,  and  a 
piercing  eye.  He  inspects  the  clumps  of  everlastings, 
and  peers  closely  into  the  bushes.  Suddenly  a  big  Grey 
Locust  flies  out  like  a  little  bird.  The  hunter  first  makes 
off  at  full  speed,  then  stops  and  gazes  in  wonder  at  this 
mock  Swallow  flying  far  away.  He  will  have  better 
luck  another  time.  We  shall  not  go  home  without  a  few 
of  those  magnificent  prizes. 

Marie  Pauline,  who  is  younger  than  her  brother, 
watches  patiently  for  the  Italian  Locust,  with  his  pink 
wings  and  carmine  hind-legs;  but  she  really  prefers  an- 
other, the  most  ornamented  of  them*  all.  Her  favourite 
wears  a  St.  Andrew's  cross  on  the  small  of  his  back,  which 
is  marked  by  four  white,  slanting  stripes.  He  wears, 
too,  patches  of  green,  the  colour  of  verdigris  on  bronze. 
With  her  hand  raised  in  the  air,  ready  to  swoop  down, 
she  approaches  very  softly,  stooping  low.  Whoosh! 
That's  done  it!  The  treasure  is  quickly  thrust  head- 
first into  a  paper  funnel,  and  plunges  with  one  bound 
to  the  bottom  of  it. 

One  by  one  our  boxes  are  filled.  Before  the  heat  be- 
comes too  great  to  bear  we  are  in  possession  of  a  number 
of  specimens.  Imprisoned  in  my  cages,  perhaps  they 
will  teach  us  something.  In  any  case  the  Locusts  have 
given  pleasure  to  three  people  at  a  small  cost. 

Locusts  have  a  bad  reputation,  I  know.  The  text- 
books describe  them  as  noxious.  I  take  the  liberty  of 

[228] 


LOCUSTS 

doubting  whether  they  deserve  this  reproach,  except,  of 
course,  in  the  case  of  the  terrible  ravagers  who  are  the 
scourge  of  Africa  and  the  East.  Their  ill  repute  has 
been  fastened  on  all  Locusts,  though  they  are,  I  consider, 
more  useful  than  harmful.  As  far  as  I  know,  our 
peasants  have  never  complained  of  them.  What  dam- 
age do  they  do? 

They  nibble  the  tops  of  the  tough  grasses  which  the 
Sheep  refuses  to  touch;  they  prefer  the  thin,  poor  grass 
to  the  fat  pastures;  they  browse  on  barren  land  that  can 
support  none  but  them;  they  live  on  food  that  no  stomach 
but  theirs  could  use. 

Besides,  by  the  time  they  frequent  the  fields  the  green 
wheat — the  only  thing  that  might  tempt  them — has 
long  ago  yielded  its  grain  and  disappeared.  If  they 
happen  to  get  into  the  kitchen-gardens  and  take  a  few 
bites,  it  is  not  a  crime.  A  man  can  console  himself  for 
a  piece  bitten  out  of  a  leaf  or  two  of  salad. 

To  measure  the  importance  of  things  by  one's  own 
turnip-patch  is  a  horrible  method.  The  short-sighted 
man  would  upset  the  order  of  the  universe  rather  than 
sacrifice  a  dozen  plums.  If  he  thinks  of  the  insect  at  all, 
it  is  only  to  kill  it. 

And  yet,  think  what  the  consequences  would  be  if  all 
the  Locusts  were  killed.  In  September  and  October  the 
Turkeys  are  driven  into  the  stubble,  under  charge  of  a 
child  armed  with  two  long  reeds.  The  expanse  over 

[229] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

which  the  gobbling  flock  slowly  spreads  is  bare,  dry,  and 
burnt  by  the  sun.  At  the  most,  a  few  ragged  thistles 
raise  their  heads.  What  do  the  birds  do  in  this  famine- 
stricken  desert?  They  cram  themselves,  that  they  may 
do  honour  to  the  Christmas  table;  they  wax  fat;  their 
flesh  becomes  firm  and  good  to  eat.  And  pray,  what  do 
they  cram  themselves  with?  With  Locusts.  They 
snap  them  up,  one  here  one  there,  till  their  greedy  crops 
are  filled  with  the  delicious  stuffing,  which  costs  nothing, 
though  its  rich  flavour  will  greatly  improve  the  Christ- 
mas Turkey. 

When  the  Guinea-fowl  roams  about  the  farm,  uttering 
her  rasping  cry,  what  is  it  she  seeks?  Seeds,  no  doubt; 
but  above  all  Locusts,  which  puff  her  out  under  the  wings 
with  a  pad  of  fat,  and  give  a  better  flavour  to  her  flesh. 
The  Hen,  too,  much  to  our  advantage,  is  just  as  fond  of 
them.  She  well  knows  the  virtues  of  that  dainty  dish, 
which  acts  as  a  tonic  and  makes  her  lay  more  eggs. 
When  left  at  liberty  she  rarely  fails  to  lead  her  family 
to  the  stubble-fields,  so  that  they  may  learn  to  snap  up 
the  nice  mouthful  skilfully.  In  fact,  every  bird  in  the 
poultry-yard  finds  the  Locust  a  valuable  addition  to  his 
bill  of  fare. 

It  is  still  more  important  outside  the  poultry-yard. 
Any  who  is  a  sportsman,  and  knows  the  value  of  the  Red- 
legged  Patridge,  the  glory  of  our  southern  hills,  should 
open  the  crop  of  the  bird  he  has  just  shot.  He  will  find 

[230] 


LOCUSTS 

it,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  more  or  less  crammed  with 
Locusts.  The  Partridge  dotes  on  them,  preferring  them 
to  seeds  as  long  as  he  can  catch  them.  This  highly- 
flavoured,  nourishing  fare  would  almost  make  him  forget 
the  existence  of  seeds,  if  it  were  only  there  all  the  year 
round. 

The  Wheat-ear,  too,  who  is  so  good  to  eat,  prefers  the 
Locust  to  any  other  food.  And  all  the  little  birds  of 
passage  which,  when  autumn  comes,  call  a  halt  in 
Provence  before  their  great  pilgrimage,  fatten  them- 
selves with  Locusts  as  a  preparation  for  the  journey. 

Nor  does  man  himself  scorn  them.  An  Arab  author 
tells  us : 

"Grasshoppers" — (he  means  Locusts) — "are  of  good 
nourishment  for  men  and  Camels.  Their  claws,  wings, 
and  head  are  taken  away,  and  they  are  eaten  fresh  or 
dried,  either  roast  or  boiled,  and  served  with  flesh,  flour, 
and  herbs. 

".  .  .  Camels  eat  them  greedily,  and  are  given  them 
dried  or  roast,  heaped  in  a  hollow  between  two  layers  of 
charcoal.  Thus  also  do  the  Nubians  eat  them.  .  .  . 

"Once,  when  the  Caliph  Omar  was  asked  if  it  were 
lawful  to  eat  Grasshoppers,  he  made  answer : 

"  'Would  that  I  had  a  basket  of  them  to  eat.' ' 

"Wherefore,  from  this  testimony,  it  is  very  sure  that, 
by  the  Grace  of  God,  Grasshoppers  were  given  to  man 
for  his  nourishment." 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

Without^going  as  far  as  the  Arab  I  feel  prepared  to  say 
that  the  Locust  is  a  gift  of  God  to  a  multitude  of  birds. 
Reptiles  also  hold  him  in  esteem.  I  have  found  him  in 
the  stomach  of  the  Eyed  Lizard,  and  have  often  caught 
the  little  Grey  Lizard  of  the  walls  in  the  act  of  carrying 
him  off. 

Even  the  fish  revel  in  him,  when  good  fortune  brings 
him  to  them.  The  Locust  leaps  blindly,  and  without 
definite  aim :  he  comes  down  wherever  he  is  shot  by  the 
springs  in  his  legs.  If  the  place  where  he  falls  happens 
to  be  water,  a  fish  gobbles  him  up  at  once.  Anglers 
sometimes  bait  their  hooks  with  a  specially  attractive 
Locust. 

As  for  his  being  fit  nourishment  for  man,  except  in  the 
form  of  Partridge  and  young  Turkey,  I  am  a  little 
doubtful.  Omar,  the  mighty  Caliph  who  destroyed  the 
library  of  Alexandria,  wished  for  a  basket  of  Locusts,  it 
is  true,  but  his  digestion  was  evidently  better  than  his 
brains.  Long  before  his  day  St.  John  the  Baptist  lived 
in  the  desert  on  Locusts  and  wild  honey;  but  in  his  case 
they  were  not  eaten  because  they  were  good. 

Wild  honey  from  the  pots  of  the  Mason-bees  is  very 
agreeable  food,  I  know.  Wishing  to  taste  the  Locust 
also  I  once  caught  some,  and  had  them  cooked  as  the  Arab 
author  advised.  We  all  of  us,  big  and  little,  tried  the 
queer  dish  at  dinner.  It  was  much  nicer  than  the  Cicadae 
praised  by  Aristotle.  I  would  go  to  the  length  of  saying 

[232] 


LOCUSTS 

it  is  good — without,  however,  feeling  any  desire  for 
more. 

ii 

THEIR   MUSICAL   TALENT 

The  Locust  possesses  musical  powers  wherewith  to 
express  his  joys.  Consider  him  at  rest,  blissfully  digest- 
ing his  meal  and  enjoying  the  sunshine.  With  sharp 
strokes  of  the  bow,  three  or  four  times  repeated  with  a 
pause  between,  he  plays  his  tune.  He  scrapes  his  sides 
with  his  great  hind-legs,  using  now  one,  now  the  other, 
and  now  both  at  a  time. 

The  result  is  very  poor,  so  slight  indeed  that  I  am 
obliged  to  make  use  of  little  Paul's  sharp  ear  to  make 
sure  that  there  is  a  sound  at  all.  Such  as  it  is,  it  is  like 
the  squeaking  of  a  needle-point  pushed  across  a  sheet  of 
paper.  Their  you  have  the  whole  song,  which  is  very 
nearly  silence. 

We  can  expect  no  more  than  this  from  the  Locust's 
very  unfinished  instrument.  There  is  nothing  here  like 
the  Cricket's  toothed  bow  and  sounding-board.  The 
lower  edge  of  the  wing-cases  is  rubbed  by  the  thighs,  but 
though  both  wing-cases  and  thighs  are  powerful  they  have 
no  roughnesses  to  supply  friction,  and  there  is  no  sign  of 
teeth. 

This  artless  attempt  at  a  musical  instrument  can  pro- 

[233] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

duce  no  more  sound  than  a  dry  membrane  will  emit  when 
you  rub  it  yourself.  And  for  the  sake  of  this  small  result 
the  insect  lifts  and  lowers  its  thigh  in  sharp  jerks,  and 
appears  perfectly  satisfied.  It  rubs  its  sides  very  much 
as  we  rub  our  hands  together  in  sign  of  contentment, 
with  no  intention  of  making  a  sound.  That  is  its  own 
particular  way  of  expressing  its  joy  in  life. 

Observe  the  Locust  when  the  sky  is  partly  covered  with 
clouds,  and  the  sun  shines  only  at  times.  There  comes  a 
rift  in  the  clouds.  At  once  the  thighs  begin  to  scrape,  be- 
coming more  and  more  active  as  the  sun  grows  hotter. 
The  strains  are  brief,  but  they  are  repeated  as  long  as  the 
sunshine  continues.  The  sky  becomes  overcast.  Then 
and  there  the  song  ceases ;  but  is  renewed  with  the  next 
gleam  of  sunlight,  always  in  brief  outburst.  There  is  no 
mistaking  it:  here,  in  these  fond  lovers  of  the  light,  we 
have  a  mere  expression  of  happiness.  The  Locust  has  his 
moments  of  gaiety  when  his  crop  is  full  and  the  sun  is 
kind. 

Not  all  the  Locusts  indulge  in  this  joyous  rubbing. 

The  Tryxalis,  who  has  a  pair  of  immensely  long  hind- 
legs,  keeps  up  a  gloomy  silence  when  even  the  sunshine  is 
brightest.  I  have  never  seen  him  move  his  shanks  like 
a  bow ;  he  seems  unable  to  use  them — so  long  are  they — 
for  anything  but  hopping. 

The  big  Grey  Locust,  who  often  visits  me  in  the  en- 
closure, even  in  the  depth  of  winter,  is  also  dumb  in 

[234] 


LOCUSTS 

consequence  of  the  excessive  length  of  his  legs.  But  he 
has  a  peculiar  way  of  diverting  himself.  In  calm 
weather,  when  the  sun  is  hot,  I  surprise  him  in  the  rose- 
mary bushes  with  his  wings  unfurled  and  fluttering 
rapidly,  as  though  for  flight.  He  keeps  up  this  per- 
formance for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  at  a  time.  His  flutter- 
ing is  so  gentle,  in  spite  of  its  extreme  speed,  that  it 
creates  hardly  any  rustling  sound. 

Others  are  still  worse  off.  One  of  these  is  the 
Pedestrian  Locust,  who  strolls  on  foot  on  the  ridges  of 
the  Ventoux  amid  sheets  of  Alpine  flowers,  silvery, 
white,  and  rosy.  His  colouring  is  as  fresh  as  that  of  the 
flowers.  The  sunlight,  which  is  clearer  on  those  heights 
than  it  is  below,  has  made  him  a  costume  combining 
beauty  with  simplicity.  His  body  is  pale  brown  above 
and  yellow  below,  his  big  thighs  are  coral  red,  his  hind- 
legs  a  glorious  azure-blue,  with  an  ivory  anklet  in  front. 
But  in  spite  of  being  such  a  dandy  he  wears  too  short  a 
coat. 

His  wing-cases  are  merely  wrinkled  slips,  and  his 
wings  no  more  than  stumps.  He  is  hardly  covered  as  far 
as  the  waist.  Any  one  seeing  him  for  the  first  time  takes 
him  for  a  larva,  but  he  is  indeed  the  full-grown  insect, 
and  he  will  wear  this  incomplete  garment  to  the  end. 

With  this  skimpy  jacket  of  course,  music  is  impossible 
to  him.  The  big  thighs  are  there;  but  there  are  no 
wing-cases,  no  grating  edge  for  the  bow  to  rub  upon. 

[235] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

The  other  Locusts  cannot  be  described  as  noisy,  but  this 
one  is  absolutely  dumb.  In  vain  have  the  most  delicate 
ears  listened  with  all  their  might.  This  silent  one  must 
have  other  means  of  expressing  his  joys.  What  they 
are  I  do  not  know. 

Nor  do  I  know  why  the  insect  remains  wthout  wings, 
a  plodding  wayfarer,  when  his  near  kinsmen  on  the  same 
Alpine  slopes  have  excellent  means  of  flying.  He 
possesses  the  beginnings  of  wings  and  wing-cases,  gifts 
Inherited  by  the  larva;  but  he  does  not  develop  these 
beginnings  and  make  use  of  them.  He  persists  in 
hopping,  with  no  further  ambition :  he  is  satisfied  to  go 
on  foot,  to  remain  -a  Pedestrian  Locust,  when  he  might, 
one  would  think,  acquire  wings.  To  flit  rapidly  from 
crest  to  crest,  over  valleys  deep  in  snow,  to  fly  from  one 
pasture  to  another,  would  certainly  be  great  advantages 
to  him.  His  fellow-dwellers  on  the  mountain-tops 
possess  wings  and  are  all  the  better  for  them.  It  would 
be  very  profitable  to  extract  from  their  sheaths  the  sails 
he  keeps  packed  away  in  useless  stumps;  and  he  does 
not  do  it.  Why? 

No  one  knows  why.  Anatomy  has  these  puzzles,  these 
surprises,  these  sudden  leaps,  which  defy  our  curiosity. 
In  the  presence  of  such  profound  problems  the  best  thing 
is  to  bow  in  all  humility,  and  pass  on. 

[236] 


LOCUSTS 
in 

THEIR   EARLY   DAYS 

The  Locust  mother  is  not,  in  all  cases,  a  model  of 
affection.  The  Italian  Locust,  having  laboriously  half- 
buried  herself  in  the  sand,  lays  her  eggs  there  and 
immediately  bounds  away.  She  gives  not  a  look  at  the 
eggs,  nor  makes  the  least  attempt  to  cover  the  hole  where 
they  lie.  It  closes  of  its  own  accord,  as  best  it  can,  by  the 
natural  falling-in  of  the  sand.  It  is  an  extremely  casual 
performance,  marked  by  an  utter  absence  of  maternal 
care. 

Others  do  not  forsake  their  eggs  so  recklessly.  The 
ordinary  Locust  with  the  blue-and-black  wings,  for  in- 
stance, after  leaving  her  eggs  in  the  sand,  lifts  her  hind- 
legs  high,  sweeps  some  sand  into  the  hole,  and  presses  it 
down  by  stamping  it  rapidly.  It  is  a  pretty  sight  to 
watch  the  swift  action  of  her  slender  legs,  giving  alter- 
nate kicks  to  the  opening  they  are  plugging.  With 
this  lively"  trampling  the  entrance  to  the  home  is  closed 
and  hidden  away.  The  hole  that  contains  the  eggs 
completely  disappears,  so  that  no  ill-intentioned  creature 
could  find  it  by  sight  alone. 

Nor  is  this  all.  The  power  that  works  the  two 
rammers  lies  in  the  hinder  thighs,  which,  as  they  rise  and 

[237] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

fall,  scrape  lightly  against  the  edge  of  the  wing-cases. 
This  scraping  produces  a  faint  sound,  similar  to  that 
with  which  the  insect  placidly  lulls  itself  to  sleep  in  the 
sun. 

The  Hen  salutes  with  a  song  of  gladness  the  egg  she 
just  laid;  she  announces  her  performance  to  the  whole 
neighbourhood.  The  Locust  celebrates  the  same  event 
with  her  thin  scraper.  "I  have  buried  underground," 
she  says,  "the  treasure  of  the  future." 

Having  made  the  nest  safe  she  leaves  the  spot, 
refreshes  herself  after  her  exertions  with  a  few  mouth- 
fuls  of  green  stuff,  and  prepares  to  begin  again. 

The  Grey  Locust  mother  is  armed  at  the  tip  of  her 
body — and  so  are  other  female  Locusts  in  varying 
degrees — with  four  short  tools,  arranged  in  pairs  and 
shaped  like  a  hooked  fingernail.  On  the  upper  pair, 
which  are  larger  than  the  others,  these  hooks  are  turned 
upwards;  on  the  lower  and  smaller  pair  they  are  turned 
downwards.  They  form  a  sort  of  claw,  and  are  scooped 
out  slightly,  like  a  spoon.  These  are  the  pick-axes,  the 
boring-tools  with  which  the  Grey  Locust  works.  With 
these  she  bites  into  the  soil,  lifting  the  dry  earth  a  little, 
as  quietly  as  if  she  were  digging  in  soft  mould.  She 
might  be  working  in  butter;  and  yet  what  the  bore  digs 
into  is  hard,  unyielding  earth. 

The  best  site  for  laying  the  eggs  is  not  always  found 
at  the  first  attempt.  I  have  seen  the  mother  make  five 

[238] 


ITALIAN  LOCUSTS 

"I  have  buried  underground,"  she  says,  "the  treasure  of  the 

future" 


>  whites  with  a  song  of  gladness  the  egg  she 
just  laid;  sfec  .tmuHinces  her  performance  to  the  whole 
nnghbourhu<Ht  The  Locust  celebrates  the  same  event 
with  her  thin  Draper  "I  have  buried  underground," 

she  s&ys,  "the  treasure  of  the  future," 

Having   tnadf;    (he   nest   safe   she   leaves   the   spot, 
rfUrsi'er;  htr^H'  after  her  exertions  with  a  few  mouth- 
lvff,  and  prepares  to  begin  again. 

mother       armed  at  the  tip  of  her 
h'xiy — yrut      ?  :<re   other    female    Locusts    in   varying 

decrees w.ub  four  short  tools,  arranged  in  pairs  and 

shaped  1  k.e-  a  hooked  fingernail.  On.  the  upper  pair, 
yvhich  are  hugcr  than  the  others,  these  hooks  are  turned 
upwards;  on  the  lower  and  smaller  pair  they  are  turned 
downwards.  Tbev  forai  a  sort  of  claw,  and  are  scooped 
out  slightly,  hke  a  spoon.  These  are  tiie  pick-axes,  the 
boring-took  with  which  the  Grey  Locust  works.  With 
these  she  bites  into  the  soil,  lifting  the  dry  earth  a  little, 
as  quietly  as  if  she  were  digging  in  soft  mould.  She 
might  be  working  in  butter;  and  yet  what  the  bore  digs 
into  is  hard,  unyielding  earth. 

The  best  site  for  laying  the  eggs  b  not  always  found 
at  the  first  attempt.     I  have  seen  the  mother  make 


LOCUSTS 

wells  one  after  the  other  before  finding  a  suitable  place. 
When  at  last  the  business  is  over,  and  the  insect  begins 
to  rise  from  the  hole  in  which  she  is  partly  buried,  one 
can  see  that  she  is  covering  her  eggs  with  milk-white 
foam,  similar  to  that  of  the  Mantis. 

This  foamy  matter  often  forms  a  button  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  well,  a  knot  which  stands  up  and  attracts 
the  eye  by  its  whiteness  against  the  grey  background  of 
the  soil.  It  is  soft  and  sticky,  but  hardens  pretty  soon. 
When  this  closing  button  is  finished  the  mother  moves 
away  and  troubles  no  more  about  her  eggs,  of  which  she 
lays  a  fresh  batch  elsewhere  after  a  few  days. 

Sometimes  the  foamy  paste  does  not  reach  the  sur- 
face; it  stops  some  way  down,  and  before  long  is  covered 
with  the  sand  that  slips  from  the  edge.  But  in  the  case 
of  my  Locusts  in  captivity  I  always  know,  even  when 
it  is  concealed,  exactly  where  the  barrel  of  eggs  lies. 
Its  structure  is  always  the  same,  though  there  are  varia- 
tions in  detail.  It  is  always  a  sheath  of  solidified  foam. 
Inside,  there  is  nothing  but  foam  and  eggs.  The  eggs 
all  lie  in  the  lower  portion,  packed  one  on  top  of 
another;  and  the  upper  part  consists  only  of  soft,  yield- 
ing foam.  This  portion  plays  an  important  part  when 
the  young  larvae  are  hatched.  I  will  call  it  the  ascend- 
ing-shaft. 

The  wonderful  egg-casket  of  the  Mantis  is  not  the 
result  of  any  special  talent  which  the  mother  can  ex- 

[239] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

ercise  at  will.  It  is  due  to  mechanism.  It  happens 
of  itself.  In  the  same  way  the  Locusts  have  no  in- 
dustry of  their  own,  especially  devised  for  laying  eggs 
in  a  keg  of  froth.  The  foam  is  produced  with  the  eggs, 
and  the  arrangement  of  eggs  at  the  bottom  and  centre, 
and  froth  on  the  outside  and  the  top,  is  purely 
mechanical. 

There  are  many  Locusts  whose  egg-cases  have  to 
last  through  the  winter,  since  they  do  not  open  until 
the  fine  weather  returns.  Though  the  soil  is  loose  and 
dusty  at  first,  it  becomes  caked  together  by  the  winter 
rains.  Supposing  that  the  hatching  takes  place  a  couple 
of  inches  below  the  surface,  how  is  this  crust,  this  hard 
ceiling,  to  be  broken?  How  is  the  larva  to  come  up 
from  below?  The  mother's  unconscious  art  has  ar- 
ranged for  that. 

The  young  Locust  finds  above  him,  when  he  comes 
out  of  the  egg,  not  rough  sand  and  hardened  earth,  but 
a  straight  tunnel,  with  solid  walls  that  keep  all  difficul- 
ties away.  This  ascending-shaft  is  full  of  foam,  which 
the  larva  can  easily  penetrate,  and  which  will  bring 
him  quite  close  to  the  surface.  Here  only  a  finger' s- 
breadth  of  serious  work  remains  to  be  done. 

The  greater  part  of  the  journey,  therefore,  is  ac- 
complished without  effort.  Though  the  Locust's  build- 
ing is  done  quite  mechanically,  without  the  least  in- 
telligence, it  is  certainly  singularly  well  devised. 

[240] 


LOCUSTS 

The  little  creature  has  now  to  complete  his  deliv- 
erance. On  leaving  his  shell  he  is  of  a  whitish  colour, 
clouded  with  light  red.  His  progress  is  made  by  worm- 
like  movements;  and,  so  that  it  may  be  as  easy  as  pos- 
sible, he  is  hatched,  like  the  young  Grasshopper,  in  a 
temporary  jacket  which  keeps  his  antennse  and  legs 
closely  fixed  to  his  body.  Like  the  White-faced 
Decticus  he  keeps  his  boring-tool  at  his  neck.  Here 
there  is  a  kind  of  tumour  th'at  swells  and  subsides 
alternately,  and  strikes  the  obstacle  before  it  as  regularly 
as  a  piston.  When  I  see  this  soft  bladder  trying  to 
overcome  the  hardness  of  the  earth  I  come  to  the  un- 
happy creature's  aid,  and  damp  the  layer  of  soil. 

Even  then  the  work  is  terribly  hard.  How  it  must 
labour,  the  poor  little  thing,  how  it  must  persevere  with 
its  throbbing  head  and  writhing  loins,  before  it  can  clear 
a  passage  for  itself!  The  wee  mite's  efforts  show  us 
plainly  that  the  journey  to  the  light  of  day  is  an  enor- 
mous undertaking,  in  which  the  greater  number  would 
die  but  for  the  help  of  the  exit-tunnel,  the  mother's 
work. 

When  the  tiny  insect  reaches  the  surface  at  last,  it 
rests  for  a  moment  to  recover  from  all  that  fatigue. 
Then  suddenly  the  blister  swells  and  throbs,  and  the 
temporary  jacket  splits.  The  rags  are  pushed  back 
by  the  hind-legs,  which  are  the  last  to  be  stripped.  The 

[241] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

thing  is  done :  the  creature  is  free,  pale  in  colouring  as 
yet,  but  possessing  its  final  form  as  a  larva. 

Immediately  the  hind-legs,  hitherto  stretched  in  a 
straight  line,  fall  into  the  correct  position.  The  legs 
fold  under  the  great  thighs,  and  the  spring  is  ready  to 
work.  It  works,  Little  Locust  makes  his  entrance  into 
the  world,  and  hops  for  the  first  time.  I  offer  him  a 
bit  of  lettuce  the  size  of  my  fingernail.  He  refuses 
it.  Before  taking  nourishment  he  must  first  mature 
and  grow  in  the  sun. 

IV 
THEIR   FINAL   CHANGE 

I  have  just  beheld  a  stirring  sight:  the  last  change 
of  a  Locust,  the  full-grown  insect  emerging  from  his 
larval  skin.  It  is  magnificent.  The  object  of  my 
enthusiasm  is  the  Grey  Locust,  the  giant  who  is  so 
common  on  the  vines  at  vintage-time,  in  September. 
On  account  of  his  size- — he  is  as  long  as  my  finger — he 
is  easier  to  observe  than  any  other  of  his  tribe.  The 
event  took  place  in  one  of  my  cages. 

The  fat,  ungraceful  larva,  a  rough  sketch  of  the  per- 
fect insect,  is  usually  pale  green;  but  some  are  blue- 
green,  dirty  yellow,  red-brown,  or  even  ashen-grey,  like 
the  grey  of  the  full-grown  Locust.  The  hind-legs, 
which  are  as  powerful  as  those  of  mature  age,  have  a 

[242] 


LOCUSTS 

great  haunch  striped  with  red  and  a  long  shank  shaped 
like  a  two-edged  saw. 

The  wing-cases  are  at  present  two  skimpy,  trian- 
gular pinions,  of  which  the  free  ends  stand  up  like 
pointed  gables.  These  two  coat-tails,  of  which  the 
material  seems  to  have  been  clipped  short  with  ridiculous 
meanness,  just  cover  the  creature's  nakedness  at  the 
small  of  the  back,  and  shelter  two  lean  strips,  the  germs 
of  the  wings.  In  brief,  the  sumptuous  slender  sails 
of  the  near  future  are  at  present  sheer  rags,  of  such 
meagre  size  as  to  be  grotesque.  From  these  miserable 
envelopes  there  will  come  a  marvel  of  stately  elegance. 

The  first  thing  to  be  done  is  to  burst  the  old  tunic. 
All  along  the  corselet  of  the  insect  there  is  a  line  that 
is  weaker  than  the  rest  of  the  skin.  Waves  of  blood 
can  be  seen  throbbing  within,  rising  and  falling  alter- 
nately, distending  the  skin  until  at  last  it  splits  at  the 
line  of  least  resistance,  and  opens  as  though  the  two 
symmetrical  halves  had  been  soldered.  The  split  is 
continued  some  little  way  back,  and  runs  between  the 
fastenings  of  the  wings:  it  goes  up  the  head  as  far  as 
the  base  of  the  antennae,  where  it  sends  a  short  branch 
to  right  and  left. 

Through  this  break  the  back  is  seen,  quite  soft,  pale, 
hardly  tinged  with  grey.  Slowly  it  swells  into  a  larger 
and  larger  hunch.  At  last  it  is  wholly  released.  The 
head  follows,  pulled  out  of  its  mask,  which  remains 

[243] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

in  its  place,  intact  in  the  smallest  particular,  but  look- 
ing strange  with  its  great  eyes  that  do  not  see.  The 
sheaths  of  the  antennae,  without  a  wrinkle,  with  nothing 
out  of  order,  and  with  their  usual  position  unchanged, 
hang  over  this  dead  face,  which  is  now  half  transparent. 

This  means  that  the  antennae  within,  although  fitted 
into  narrow  sheaths  that  enclose  them  as  precisely  as 
gloves,  are  able  to  withdraw  without  disturbing  the 
covers  in  the  smallest  degree,  or  even  wrinkling  them. 
The  contents  manage  to  slip  out  as  easily  as  a  smooth, 
straight  object  could  slip  from  a  loose  sheath.  This 
mechanism  is  even  more  remarkable  in  the  case  of  the 
hind-legs. 

Now  it  is  the  turn  of  the  fore-legs  and  intermediary 
legs  to  shed  their  armlets  and  gauntlets,  always  without 
the  least  rent,  however  small,  without  a  crease  of  rumpled 
material,  or  a  trace  of  any  change  in  the  natural  position. 
,The  insect  is  now  fixed  to  the  top  of  the  cage  only  by  the 
claws  of  the  long  hind-legs.  It  hangs  perpendicularly 
by  four  tiny  hooks,  head  downwards,  and  it  swings  like  a 
pendulum  if  I  touch  the  wire-gauze. 

The  wing-cases  and  wings  now  emerge.  These  are 
four  narrow  strips,  faintly  grooved  and  looking  like  bits 
of  paper  ribbon.  At  this  stage  they  are  scarcely  a  quarter 
of  their  final  length.  They  are  so  limp  that  they  bend 
under  their  own  weight  and  sprawl  along  the  insect's  sides 
in  the  wrong  direction,  with  their  points  towards  the  head 

[244] 


LOCUSTS 

of  the  Locust.  Imagine  four  blades  of  thick  grass,  bent 
and  battered  by  a  rain-storm,  and  you  will  have  a  fair 
picture  of  the  pitiable  bunch  formed  by  the  future  wings. 

The  hind-legs  are  next  released.  The  great  thighs 
appear,  tinted  on  their  inner  surface  with  pale  pink, 
which  will  soon  turn  into  a  streak  of  bright  crimson. 
They  come  out  of  the  sheath  quite  easily,  for  the  thick 
haunch  makes  way  for  the  tapering  knuckle. 

The  shank  is  a  different  matter.  The  shank  of  the 
full-grown  insect  bristles  throughout  its  length  with  a 
double  row  of  hard,  pointed  spikes.  Moreover,  the  lower 
extremity  ends  in  four  large  spurs.  It  is  a  genuine  saw, 
but  with  two  parallel  sets  of  teeth. 

Now  this  awkwardly  shaped  skin  is  enclosed  in  a  sheath 
that  is  formed  in  exactly  the  same  way.  Each  spur  is 
fitted  into  a  similar  spur,  each  tooth  into  the  hollow  of  a 
similar  tooth.  And  the  sheath  is  as  close  and  as  thin  as  a 
coat  of  varnish. 

Nevertheless  the  saw-like  skin  slips  out  of  its  long 
narrow  case  without  catching  in  it  at  any  point  whatever. 
If  I  had  not  seen  this  happen  over  and  over  again  I  could 
never  have  believed  it.  The  saw  does  no  injury  to  the 
dainty  scabbard  which  a  puff  of  my  breath  is  enough  to 
tear;  the  formidable  rake  slips  through  without  leaving 
the  least  scratch  behind  it. 

One  would  expect  that,  because  of  the  spiked  armour, 
the  envelope  of  the  leg  would  strip  off  in  scales  coming 

[245] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

loose  of  themselves,  or  would  be  rubbed  off  like  dead 
skin.  But  the  reality  exceeds  all  possible  expectation. 
From  the  spurs  and  spikes  of  the  infinitely  thin  envelope 
there  are  drawn  spurs  and  spikes  so  strong  that  they 
can  cut  soft  wood.  This  is  done  without  violence,  the 
discarded  skin  remains  where  it  was,  hanging  by  the 
claws  to  the  top  of  the  cage,  uncreased  and  untorn.  The 
magnify  ing-glass  shows  not  a  trace  of  rough  usage. 

If  it  were  suggested  that  one  should  draw  out  a  saw 
from  some  sort  of  gold-beater's  skin  sheath  which  had 
been  exactly  moulded  on  the  steel,  and  that  one  should 
perform  the  operation  without  making  the  least  tear, 
one  would  simply  laugh.  The  thing  would  be  im- 
possible. Yet  Nature  makes  light  of  such  im- 
possibilities ;  she  can  realise  the  absurd,  in  case  of  need. 

The  difficulty  is  overcome  in  this  way.  While  the  leg 
is  being  liberated  it  is  not  rigid,  as  it  will  presently  be. 
It  is  soft  and  highly  flexible.  Where  it  is  exposed  to 
view  I  see  it  bending  and  curving:  it  is  as  supple  as 
elastic  cord.  And  farther  on,  where  it  is  hidden,  it  is 
certainly  still  softer,  it  is  almost  fluid.  The  teeth  of  the 
saw  are  there,  but  have  none  of  their  future  sharpness. 
The  spikes  lie  backwards  when  the  leg  is  about  to  be 
drawn  back:  as  it  emerges  they  stand  up  and  become 
solid.  A  few  minutes  later  the  leg  has  attained  the 
proper  state  of  stiffness. 

And  now  the  fine  tunic  is  wrinkled  and  rumpled,  and 

[246] 


LOCUSTS 

pushed  back  along  the  body  towards  the  tip.  Except  at 
this  point  the  Locust  is  bare.  After  a  rest  of  twenty 
minutes  he  makes  a  supreme  effort;  he  raises  himself  as 
he  hangs,  and  grabs  hold  of  his  cast  skin.  Then  he 
climbs  higher,  and  fixes  himself  to  the  wire  of  the  cage 
with  his  four  front  feet.  He  loosens  the  empty  husk 
with  one  last  shake,  and  it  falls  to  the  ground.  The 
Locust's  transformation  is  conducted  in  much  the  same 
way  as  the  Cicada's. 

The  insect  is  now  standing  erect,  and  therefore  the 
flexible  wings  are  in  the  right  position.  They  are  no 
longer  curved  backwards  like  the  petals  of  a  flower,  they 
are  no  longer  upside  down;  but  they  still  look  shabby 
and  insignificant.  All  that  we  see  is  a  few  wrinkles,  a 
few  winding  furrows,  which  tell  us  that  the  stumps  are 
bundles  of  cunningly  folded  material,  arranged  so  as 
to  take  up  as  little  space  as  possible. 

Very  gradually  they  expand,  so  gradually  that  their 
unfolding  cannot  be  seen  even  under  the  microscope. 
The  process  continues  for  three  hours.  Then  the  wings 
and  wing-cases  stand  up  on  the  Locust's  back  like  a  huge 
set  of  sails,  sometimes  colourless,  sometimes  pale-green, 
like  the  Cicada's  wings  at  the  beginning.  One  is  amazed 
at  their  size  when  one  thinks  of  the  paltry  bundles  that 
represented  them  at  first.  How  could  so  much  stuff  find 
room  there? 

The  fairy  tale  tells  us  of  a  grain  of  hempseed  that 

[247] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

contained  the  under-linen  of  a  princess.  Here  is  a  grain 
that  is  even  more  astonishing.  The  one  in  the  story 
took  years  and  years  to  sprout  and  multiply,  till  at  last 
it  yielded  the  hemp  required  for  the  trousseau:  the 
Locust's  tiny  bundle  supplies  a  sumptuous  set  of  sails 
in  three  hours.  They  are  formed  of  exquisitely  fine 
gauze,  a  network  of  innumerable  tiny  bars. 

In  the  wing  of  the  larva  we  can  see  only  a  few  un- 
certain outlines  of  the  future  lace-work.  There  is  no- 
thing to  suggest  the  marvellous  fabric  whose  every  mesh 
will  have  its  form  and  place  arranged  for  it,  'with 
absolute  exactness.  Yet  it  is  there,  as  the  oak  is  inside 
the  acorn. 

There  must  be  something  to  make  the  matter  of  the 
wing  shape  itself  into  a  sheet  of  gauze,  into  a  labyrinth 
of  meshes.  There  must  be  an  original  plan,  an  ideal 
pattern  which  gives  each  atom  its  proper  place.  The 
stones  of  our  buildings  are  arranged  in  accordance  with 
the  architect's  plan ;  they  form  an  imaginary  building  be- 
fore they  exist  as  a  real  one.  In  the  same  way  a  Locust's 
wing,  that  sumptuous  piece  of  lace  emerging  from  a 
miserable  sheath,  speaks  to  us  of  another  Architect,  the 
Author  of  the  plans  which  Nature  must  follow  in  her 
labours. 


[248] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   ANTHRAX   FLY 

I 
A   STRANGE   MEAL 

I  MADE  the  acquaintance  of  the  Anthrax  in  1855  at 
Carpentras,  when  I  was  searching  the  slopes  of 
which  I  have  already  told  you,  the  slopes  beloved 
of  the  Anthophora-bees.     Her  curious  pupa,  so  power- 
fully equipped  to  force  an  outlet  for  the  perfect  insect, 
which  is  incapable  of  the  least  effort,  seemed  worthy  of 
investigation.     For  that  pupa  is  armed  with  a  plough- 
share in  front,  a  trident  at  its  tail,  and  rows  of  harpoons 
on  its  back,  with  which  to  rip  open  the  Osmia-bee's  cocoon 
and  break  through  the  hard  crust  of  the  hill-side. 

Let  us,  some  day  in  July,  knock  away  the  pebbles  that 
fasten  the  nests  of  the  Mason-bees  to  the  sloping  ground 
on  which  they  are  built.  Loosened  by  the  shock,  the 
dome  comes  off  cleanly,  all  in  one  piece.  Moreover — 
and  this  is  a  great  advantage — the  cells  are  all  exposed 
at  the  base  of  the  nest,  for  at  this  point  they  have  no  other 
wall  than  the  surface  of  the  pebble.  Without  any  scrap- 
ing, which  would  be  wearisome  work  for  us  and  danger- 
ous to  the  Bees,  we  have  all  the  cells  before  our  eyes,  to- 

[249] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

gether  with  their  contents — a  silky,  amber-yellow  cocoon, 
as  delicate  and  transparent  as  the  skin  of  an  onion.  Let 
us  split  the  dainty  wrappers  with  the  scissors,  cell  by  cell, 
one  after  another.  If  fortune  be  at  all  kind,  as  it  always 
is  to  the  persevering,  we  shall  end  by  finding  cocoons 
harbouring  two  larvae  together,  one  more  or  less  faded 
in  appearance,  the  other  fresh  and  plump.  We  shall  also 
find  some,  no  less  plentiful,  in  which  the  withered  larva 
is  accompanied  by  a  family  of  little  grubs  wriggling  un- 
easily round  it. 

It  is  easy  to  see  that  a  tragedy  is  happening  under  the 
cover  of  the  cocoon.  The  flabby,  faded  larva  is  the 
Mason-bee's.  A  month  ago,  in  June,  having  finished 
its  ration  of  honey,  it  wove  itself  a  silken  sheath  in  which 
to  take  the  long  sleep  that  precedes  its  transformation. 
It  was  bulging  with  fat,  and  was  a  rich  and  a  defenceless 
morsel  for  any  enemy  that  could  reach  it.  And  enemies 
did  reach  it.  In  spite  of  obstacles  that  might  well  seem 
insurmountable,  the  wall  of  mortar  and  dome-shaped 
cover,  the  enemy  grubs  appeared  in  the  secret  retreat,  and 
began  to  eat  the  sleeper.  Three  different  species  take 
part  in  this  murderous  work,  often  in  the  same  nest,  in 
adjoining  cells.  We  will  concern  ourselves  only  with 
the  Anthrax  Fly. 

The  grub,  when  it  has  eaten  its  victim  and  is  left  alone 
in  the  Mason-bee's  cocoon,  is  a  naked  worm,  smooth,  leg- 
less, and  blind.  It  is  creamy-white,  and  each  of  its 

[250] 


THE  ANTHRAX  FLY 

segments  or  divisions  forms  a  perfect  ring,  very  much 
curved  when  at  rest,  but  almost  straight  when  disturbed. 
Including  the  head  I  can  count  thirteen  segments,  well- 
marked  in  the  middle  of  the  body,  but  in  the  fore-part 
difficult  to  distinguish.  The  white,  soft  head  shows  no 
sign  of  any  mouth,  and  is  no  bigger  than  a  tiny  pin's 
head.  The  grub  has  four  pale  red  stigmata,  or  openings 
through  which  to  breathe,  two  in  front  and  two  behind, 
as  is  the  rule  among  Flies.  It  has  no  walking-apparatus 
whatever;  it  is  absolutely  incapable  of  shifting  its 
position.  If  I  disturb  its  rest,  it  curves  and  straightens 
itself  alternately,  tossing  about  violently  where  it  lies; 
but  it  does  not  manage  to  progress. 

But  the  most  interesting  point  about  the  grub  of  the 
Anthrax  is  its  manner  of  eating.  A  most  unexpected 
fact  attracts  our  attention :  the  curious  ease  with  which 
this  larva  leaves  and  returns  to  the  Bee-grub  on  which  it 
is  feeding.  After  watching  flesh-eating  grubs  at 
hundreds  and  hundreds  of  meals,  I  suddenly  find  myself 
confronted  with  a  manner  of  eating  that  is  entirely  un- 
like anything  I  ever  saw  before. 

This,  for  instance,  is  the  Amophila-grub's  way  of  de- 
vouring its  caterpillar.  A  hole  is  made  in  the  victim's 
side,  and  the  head  and  neck  of  the  grub  dives  deep  into 
the  wound.  It  never  withdraws  its  head,  never  pauses 
to  take  breath.  The  voracious  animal  always  goes  for- 
ward, chewing,  swallowing,  digesting,  until  the  cater- 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

pillar's  skin  is  empty.  Once  the  meal  is  begun,  the 
creature  does  not  budge  as  long  as  the  food  lasts.  If 
moved  by  force  it  hesitates,  and  hunts  about  for  the 
exact  spot  where  it  left  off  eating;  for  if  the  caterpillar 
be  attacked  at  a  fresh  point  it  is  liable  to  go  bad. 

In  the  case  of  the  Anthrax-grub  there  is  none  of  this 
mangling,  none  of  this  persistent  clinging  to  the  original 
wound.  If  I  tease  it  with  the  tip  of  a  pointed  brush  it  at 
once  retires,  and  there  is  no  wound  to  be  seen  on  the 
victim,  no  sign  of  broken  skin.  Soon  the  grub  once  more 
applies  its  pimple-head  to  its  meal,  at  any  point,  no 
matter  where,  and  keeps  itself  fixed  there  without  any 
effort.  If  I  repeat  the  touch  with  the  brush  I  see  the 
same  sudden  retreat  and  the  same  calm  return  to  the 
meal. 

The  ease  with  which  this  larva  grips,  leaves,  and  re- 
grips  its  victim,  now  here,  now  there,  and  always  with- 
out a  wound,  shows  that  the  mouth  of  the  Anthrax  is  not 
armed  with  fangs  that  can  dig  into  the  skin  and  tear  it. 
If  the  flesh  were  gashed  by  pincers  of  any  kind,  one  or 
two  attempts  would  be  necessary  before  they  could  leave 
go  or  take  hold  again;  and  besides,  the  skin  would  be 
broken.  There  is  nothing  of  the  kind :  the  grub  simply 
glues  its  mouth  to  its  prey,  and  withdraws  it.  It  does 
not  chew  its  food  like  the  other  flesh-eating  grub:  it 
does  not  eat,  it  inhales. 

This  remarkable  fact  led  me  to  examine  the  mouth 

[252] 


THE  ANTHRAX  FLY 

under  the  microscope.  It  is  a  small  conical  crater,  with 
yellowish-red  sides  and  very  faint  lines  running  round 
it.  At  the  bottom  of  this  funnel  is  the  opening  of  the 
throat.  There  is  not  the  slightest  trace  of  mandibles  or 
jaws,  or  any  object  capable  of  seizing  and  grinding  food. 
There  is  nothing  at  all  but  the  bowl-shaped  opening.  I 
know  of  no  other  example  of  a  mouth  like  this,  which 
I  can  only  compare  to  a  cupping-glass.  Its  attack  is  a 
mere  kiss,  but  what  a  cruel  kiss ! 

To  observe  the  working  of  this  curious  machine  I 
placed  a  new-born  Anthrax-grub,  together  with  its  prey, 
in  a  glass  tube.  Here  I  was  able  to  watch  the  strange  re- 
past from  beginning  to  end. 

The  Anthrax-grub — the  Bee's  uninvited  guest — is 
fixed  by  its  mouth  or  sucker  to  any  convenient  part  of 
the  plump  Bee-grub.  It  is  ready  to  break  off  its  kiss 
suddenly,  should  anything  disturb  it,  and  to  resume  it  as 
easily  when  it  wishes.  After  three  or  four  days  of  this 
curious  contact  the  Bee-grub,  formerly  so  fat,  glossy,  and 
healthy,  begins  to  look  withered.  Her  sides  fall  in,  her 
fresh  colour  fades,  her  skin  becomes  covered  with  little 
folds,  and  she  is  evidently  shrinking.  A  week  is  hardly 
passed  when  these  signs  of  exhaustion  increase  to  a 
startling  degree.  The  victim  is  flabby  and  wrinkled,  as 
though  borne  down  by  her  own  weight.  If  I  move  her 
from  her  place  she  flops  and  sprawls  like  a  half-filled 
indiarubber  bottle.  But  the  kiss  of  the  Anthrax  goes  on 

[253] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

emptying  her :  soon  she  is  but  a  sort  of  shrivelled  bladder, 
growing  smaller  and  smaller  from  hour  to  hour.  At 
length,  between  the  twelfth  and  fifteenth  day,  all  that  re- 
mains of  the  Mason-bee's  larva  is  a  little  white  grain, 
hardly  as  large  as  a  pin's  head. 

If  I  soften  this  small  remnant  in  water,  and  then  blow 
into  it  through  a  very  fine  glass  tube,  the  skin  fills  out 
and  resumes  the  shape  of  the  larva.  There  is  no  outlet 
anywhere  for  the  compressed  air.  It  is  intact :  it  is  no- 
where broken.  This  proves  that,  under  the  cupping- 
glass  of  the  Anthrax,  the  skin  has  been  drained  through 
its  pores. 

The  devouring  grub,  in  making  its  attack,  chooses  its 
moment  very  cunningly.  It  is  but  an  atom.  Its  mother, 
a  feeble  Fly,  has  done  nothing  to  help  it.  She  has  no 
weapons;  and  she  is  quite  incapable  of  penetrating  the 
Mason-bee's  fortress.  The  future  meal  of  the  Anthrax 
has  not  been  paralysed,  nor  injured  in  any  way.  The 
parasite  arrives — we  shall  presently  see  how;  it  arrives, 
scarcely  visible,  and  having  made  its  preparations  it  in- 
stalls itself  upon  its  monstrous  victim,  whom  it  is  going 
to  drain  to  the  very  husk.  And  the  victim,  though  not 
paralysed  nor  in  any  way  lacking  in  vitality,  lets  it  have 
its  way,  and  is  sucked  dry  without  a  tremor  or  a  quiver  of 
resistance.  No  corpse  could  show  greater  indifference 
to  a  bite. 

Had   the   Anthrax-grub   appeared   upon   the   scene 

[254] 


THE  ANTHRAX  FLY 

earlier,  when  the  Bee-grub  was  eating  her  store  of  honey, 
things  would  surely  have  gone  badly  with  it.  The 
victim,  feeling  herself  bled  to  death  by  that  ravenous 
kiss,  would  have  protested  with  much  wriggling  of  body 
and  grinding  of  mandibles.  The  intruder  would  have 
perished.  But  at  the  hour  chosen  so  wisely  by  it  all 
danger  is  over.  Enclosed  in  her  silken  sheath,  the  larva 
is  in  the  torpid  state  that  precedes  her  transformation 
into  a  Bee.  Her  condition  is  not  death,  but  neither  is  it 
life.  So  there  is  no  sign  of  irritation  when  I  stir  her  with 
a  needle,  nor  when  the  Anthrax-grub  attacks  her. 

There  is  another  marvellous  point  about  the  meal  of 
the  Anthrax-grub.  The  Bee-grub  remains  alive  until  the 
very  end.  Were  she  really  dead  it  would,  in  less  than 
twenty-four  hours,  turn  a  dirty-brown  colour  and  de- 
compose. But  during  the  whole  fortnight  that  the  meal 
lasts,  the  butter-colour  of  the  victim  continues  unaltered, 
and  there  is  no  sign  of  putrefaction.  Life  persists  un- 
til the  body  is  reduced  to  nothing.  And  yet,  if  I  myself 
give  her  a  wound,  the  whole  body  turns  brown  and  soon 
begins  to  rot.  The  prick  of  a  needle  makes  her  decom- 
pose. A  mere  nothing  kills  it;  the  atrocious  draining  of 
its  strength  does  not. 

The  only  explanation  I  can  suggest  is  this,  and  it  is  no 
more  than  a  suggestion.  Nothing  but  fluids  can  be 
drawn  by  the  sucker  of  the  Anthrax  through  the  unpierced 
skin  of  the  Bee-grub :  no  part  of  the  breathing-apparatus 

[255] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

or  the  nervous  system  can  pass.  As  these  two  essentials 
remain  uninjured,  life  goes  on  until  the  fluid  contents  of 
the  skin  are  entirely  exhausted.  On  the  other  hand,  if 
I  myself  injure  the  larva  of  the  Bee,  I  disturb  the  nervous 
or  the  air-conducting  system,  and  the  bruised  part 
spreads  a  taint  all  over  the  body. 

Liberty  is  a  noble  possession,  even  in  an  insignificant 
grub;  but  it  has  its  dangers  everywhere.  The  Anthrax 
escapes  these  dangers  only  on  the  condition  of  being,  so 
to  speak,  muzzled.  It  finds  its  own  way  into  the  Bee's 
dwelling,  quite  independently  of  its  mother.  Unlike 
most  of  the  other  flesh-eating  larvae  it  is  not  fixed  by  its 
mother's  care  at  the  most  suitable  spot  for  its  meal.  It 
is  perfectly  free  to  attack  its  prey  where  it  chooses.  If  it 
had  a  set  of  carving-tools,  of  jaws  and  mandibles,  it 
would  meet  with  a  speedy  death.  It  would  split  open 
its  victim  and  bite  it  at  random,  and  its  food  would  rot. 
Its  freedom  of  action  would  kill  it. 

ii 

THE   WAY  OUT 

There  are  other  grub-eaters  which  drain  their  victims 
without  wounding  them,  but  not  one,  among  those  I 
know,  reaches  such  perfection  in  this  art  as  the  Anthrax- 
grub.  Nor  can  any  be  compared  with  the  Anthrax  as  re- 
gards the  means  brought  into  play  in  order  to  leave  the 

[256] 


THE  ANTHRAX  FLY 

cell.  The  others,  when  they  become  perfect  insects,  have 
implements  for  mining  and  demolishing.  They  have 
stout  mandibles,  capable  of  digging  the  ground,  of 
pulling  down  clay  partition-walls,  and  even  of  grinding 
the  Mason-bee's  tough  cement  to  powder.  The  Anthrax, 
in  her  final  form,  has  nothing  like  this.  Her  mouth  is 
a  short,  soft  proboscis,  good  at  most  for  soberly  licking 
the  sugary  fluid  from  the  flowers.  Her  slim  legs  are  so 
feeble  that  to  move  a  grain  of  sand  would  be  too  heavy  a 
task  for  them,  enough  to  strain  every  joint.  Her  great 
stiff  wings,  which  must  remain  full-spread,  do  not  allow 
her  to  slip  through  a  narrow  passage.  Her  delicate  suit 
of  downy  velvet,  from  which  you  take  the  bloom  by 
merely  breathing  on  it,  could  not  withstand  the  contact 
of  rough  tunnels.  She  is  unable  to  enter  the  Mason- 
bee's  cells  to  lay  her  egg,  and  equally  unable  to  leave  it 
when  the  time  comes  to  free  herself  and  appear  in  broad 
daylight. 

And  the  grub,  for  its  part,  is  powerless  to  prepare  the 
way  for  the  coming  flight.  That  buttery  little  cylinder, 
owning  no  tools  but  a  sucker  so  flimsy  and  small  that  it 
is  barely  visible  through  the  magnifying-glass,  is  even 
weaker  than  the  full-grown  insect,  which  at  least  flies 
and  walks.  The  Mason-bee's  cell  seems  to  this  creature 
like  a  granite  cave.  How  can  it  get  out  *?  The  problems 
would  be  insoluble  to  these  two  incapables,  if  nothing 
else  played  its  part. 

[257] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

Among  insects  the  pupa — the  transition  stage,  when 
the  creature  is  no  longer  a  grub  but  is  not  yet  a  perfect 
insect — is  generally  a  striking  picture  of  complete  weak- 
ness. A  sort  of  mummy,  tightly  bound  in  swaddling- 
clothes,  motionless  and  unconscious,  it  awaits  its  trans- 
formation. Its  tender  flesh  is  hardly  solid;  its  limbs  are 
transparent  as  crystals,  and  are  held  fixed  in  their  place, 
lest  a  movement  should  disturb  the  work  of  development. 
In  the  same  way,  to  secure  his  recovery,  a  patient  whose 
bones  are  broken  is  held  bound  in  the  surgeon's  bandages. 

Well,  here,  by  a  strange  reversal  of  the  usual  state  of 
things,  a  stupendous  task  is  laid  upon  the  pupa  of  the 
Anthrax.  It  is  the  pupa  that  has  to  toil,  to  strive,  to  ex- 
haust itself  in  efforts  to  burst  the  wall  and  open  the  way 
out.  To  the  pupa  falls  the  desperate  duty,  to  the  full- 
grown  insect  the  joy  of  resting  in  the  sun.  The  result  of 
these  unusual  conditions  is  that  the  pupa  possesses  a 
strange  and  complicated  set  of  tools  that  is  in  no  way 
suggested  by  the  grub  nor  recalled  by  the  perfect  Fly. 
This  set  of  tools  includes  a  collection  of  ploughshares, 
gimlets,  hooks,  spears,  and  other  implements  that  are  not 
found  in  our  trades  nor  named  in  our  dictionaries.  I 
will  do  my  best  to  describe  the  strange  gear. 

By  the  time  that  July  is  nearly  over  the  Anthrax  has 
finished  eating  the  Bee-grub.  From  that  time  until  the 
following  May  it  lies  motionless  in  the  Mason-bee's 
cocoon,  beside  the  remains  of  its  victim.  When  the  fine 

[258] 


THE  ANTHRAX  FLY 

Her  delicate  suit  of  downy  1'clret,  from  which  yon  take  the 

bloom  by  merely  breathing  on  it,  could  not  withstand 

the  contact  of  rough  tunnels 


stage,  • 


,\\\  VM  u. 
'ple 


fmnd  in  swaddling- 

ess  and  unKXmiK  i  waits  its  trans- 

formation,    Its  tender  flesh  is  hardly  solid;  its  limbs  are 
as  crystals,  and  ar*  held  fixed  in  their  place, 
should  distum  rhe  work  of  development. 
Tn  thi     ti.nf  way,  to  secure  his  recovery,  a  patient  whose 
held  hound  in  the  surgeon's  bandages. 
.-  a  strange  reversal  of  the  usual  state  of 
?  stupendous  task  u  laid  upon  the  pupa  of  the 
it  is  the  pupa  that  has  to  toil,  to  strive,  to  ex- 
s  to  burst  the  wall  and  open  the  way 
•  pupa  tails  the  desperate  duty,  to  -the  full- 
P"  -  ?he  joy  ot  resting  in  the  sun.     The  result  of 

rf.i*te  !?:nu-:.ual  renditions  is  that  the  pupa  possesses  a 
str;m.jyr<-  ^nd  comphcatcd  s^t  of  tools  that  is  in  no  way 
suggested  by  the  grub  nor  recalled  by  the  perfect  Fly. 
This  srt  of  tools  includes  a  collection  of  ploughshares, 
gimlets,  hooks,  spears,  and  other  implements  that  are  nor 
found  in  our  trades  nor  named  in  our  dictionaries.  J 
will  do  my  bes?  to  describe  the  strange  gear. 

By  the  rime  that  July  is  nearly  over  the  Anthrax  1- 
iimhed  eating  thr  Bee-grub.     From  that  time  until 
following  May  it  lies  motionless  in  the  Mason-bf 
,  beside  the  remains  of  its  victim.     When 


THE  ANTHRAX  FLY 

days  of  May  arrive  it  shrivels,  and  casts  its  skin;  and  it  is 
then  that  the  pupa  appears,  fully  clad  in  a  stout,  reddish, 
horny  hide. 

The  head  is  round  and  large,  and  is  crowned  on  top  and 
in  front  with  a  sort  of  diadem  of  six  hard,  sharp,  black 
spikes,  arranged  in  semi-circle.  This  sixfold  plough- 
share is  the  chief  digging-implement.  Lower  down  the 
instrument  is  finished  off  with  a  separate  group  of  two 
small  black  spikes,  placed  close  together. 

Four  segments  in  the  middle  of  the  body  are  armed  on 
the  back  with  a  belt  of  little  horny  arches,  set  in  the  skin 
upside  down.  They  are  arranged  parallel  to  one  an- 
other, and  are  finished  at  both  ends  with  a  hard,  black 
point.  The  belt  forms  a  double  row  of  little  thorns, 
with  a  hollow  in  between.  There  are  about  two 
hundred  spikes  on  the  four  segments.  The  use  of  this 
rasp,  or  grater,  is  obvious :  it  helps  the  pupa  to  steady  it- 
self on  the  wall  of  the  gallery  as  the  work  proceeds. 
Thus  anchored  on  a  host  of  points  the  brave  pioneer  is 
able  to  hit  the  obstacle  harder  with  its  crown  of  awls. 
Moreover,  to  make  it  more  difficult  for  the  instrument  to 
recoil,  there  are  long,  stiff  bristles,  pointing  backwards, 
scattered  here  and  there  among  the  rows  of  spikes. 
There  are  some  also  on  other  segments,  and  on  the  sides 
they  are  arranged  in  clusters.  Two  more  belts  of  thorns, 
less  powerful  than  the  others,  and  a  sheaf  of  eight  spikes 
at  the  tip  of  the  body — two  of  which  are  longer  than  the 

[259] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

rest — completes  the  strange  boring-machine  that  pre- 
pares an  outlet  for  the  feeble  Anthrax. 

About  the  end  of  May  the  colouring  of  the  pupa  alters, 
and  shows  that  the  transformation  is  close  at  hand.  The 
head  and  fore-part  of  the  creature  become  a  handsome, 
shiny  black,  prophetic  of  the  black  livery  worn  by  the 
coming  insect.  I  was  anxious  to  see  the  boring-tools  in 
action,  and,  since  this  could  not  be  done  in  natural  con- 
ditions, I  confined  the  Anthrax  in  a  glass  tube,  between 
two  thick  stoppers  of  sorghum-pith.  The  space  between 
the  stoppers  was  about  the  same  size  as  the  Bee's  cell, 
and  the  partitions,  though  not  so  strong  as  the  Bee's 
masonry,  were  firm  enough  to  withstand  considerable 
effort.  On  the  other  hand  the  side-walls,  being  of  glass, 
could  not  be  gripped  by  the  toothed  belts,  which  made 
matters  much  harder  for  the  worker. 

No  matter:  in  the  space  of  a  single  day  the  pupa 
pierced  the  front  partition,  three-quarters  of  an  inch 
thick.  I  saw  it  fixing  its  double  ploughshare  against  the 
back  partition,  arching  itself  into  a  bow,  and  then 
suddenly  releasing  itself  and  striking  the  stopper  in  front 
of  it  with  its  barbed  forehead.  Under  the  blows  of  the 
spikes  the  pith  slowly  crumbled  to  pieces,  atom  by  atom. 
At  long  intervals  the  method  of  work  changed.  The 
animal  drove  its  crown  of  awls  into  the  pith,  and  fidgeted 
and  swayed  about  for  a  time;  then  the  blows  began  again. 

[260] 


THE  ANTHRAX  FLY 

Now  and  then  there  were  intervals  of  rest.  At  last  the 
hole  was  made.  The  pupa  slipped  into  it,  but  did  not 
pass  through  entirely.  The  head  and  chest  appeared  be- 
yond  the  hole,  but  the  rest  of  the  body  remained  held  in 
the  tunnel. 

The  glass  cell  certainly  puzzled  my  Anthrax.  The 
hole  through  the  pith  was  wide  and  irregular:  it  was  a 
clumsy  breach  and  not  a  gallery.  When  made  through 
the  Mason-bee's  walls  it  is  fairly  neat,  and  exactly  of  the 
animal's  diameter.  For  narrowness  and  evenness  in  the 
exit-tunnel  are  necessary.  The  pupa  always  remains 
half-caught  in  it,  and  even  pretty  securely  fixed  by  the 
graters  on  its  back.  Only  the  head  and  chest  emerge 
into  the  outer  air.  A  fixed  support  is  indispensable,  for 
without  it  the  Anthrax  could  not  issue  from  her  horny 
sheath,  unfurling  her  great  wings  and  drawing  out  her 
slender  legs. 

She  therefore  remains  steadily  fixed  by  the  graters  on 
her  back,  in  the  narrow  exit-gallery.  All  is  now  ready. 
The  transformation  begins.  Two  slits  appear  on  the 
head :  one  along  the  forehead,  and  a  second,  crossing  it, 
dividing  the  skull  in  two  and  extending  down  the  chest. 
Through  this  cross-shaped  opening  the  Anthrax  Fly 
suddenly  appears.  She  steadies  herself  upon  her  trem- 
bling legs,  dries  her  wings  and  takes  to  flight,  leaving  her 
cast  skin  at  the  doorway  of  the  gallery.  The  sad- 

[261] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

coloured  Fly  has  five  or  six  weeks  before  her  wherein  to 
explore  the  clay  nests  amid  the  thyme  and  to  take  her 
small  share  of  the  joys  of  life. 

in 

THE   WAY   IN 

IF  you  have  paid  attention  to  this  story  of  the  Anthrax 
Fly,  you  must  have  noticed  that  it  is  incomplete. 
The  Fox  in  the  fable  saw  how  the  Lion's  visitors  en- 
tered his  den,  but  did  not  see  how  they  went  out.  With 
us  the  case  is  reversed:  we  know  the  way  out  of  the 
Mason-bee's  fortress,  but  we  do  not  know  the  way  in.  To 
leave  the  cell  whose  owner  it  has  eaten,  the  Anthrax  be- 
comes a  boring-tool.  When  the  exit-tunnel  is  opened 
this  tool  splits  like  a  pod  bursting  in  the  sun,  and  from 
the  strong  framework  there  escapes  a  dainty  Fly.  A  soft 
bit  of  fluff  that  contrasts  strangely  with  the  roughness  of 
the  prison  whence  it  comes.  On  this  point  we  know 
pretty  well  what  there  is  to  know.  But  the  entrance  of 
the  grub  into  the  cell  puzzled  me  for  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury. 

It  is  plain  that  the  mother  cannot  place  her  egg  in  the 
Bee's  cell,  which  is  closed  and  barricaded  with  a  cement 
wall.  To  pierce  it  she  would  have  to  become  a  boring- 
tool  once  more,  and  get  into  the  cast-off  rags  which  she 
left  at  the  doorway  of  the  exit-tunnel.  She  would  have 

[262] 


THE  ANTHRAX  FLY 

to  become  a  pupa  again.  For  the  full-grown  Fly  has  no 
claws,  nor  mandibles,  nor  any  implement  capable  of 
working  its  way  through  the  wall. 

Can  it  be,  then,  the  grub  that  makes  its  own  way  into 
the  storeroom,  that  same  grub  that  we  have  seen  sucking 
the  life  out  of  the  Bee's  larva4?  Let  us  call  the  creature 
to  mind :  a  little  oily  sausage,  which  stretches  and  curls 
up  just  where  it  lies,  without  being  able  to  shift  its 
position.  Its  body  is  a  smooth  cylinder,  its  mouth  a 
circular  lip.  It  has  no  means  whatever  of  moving;  not 
even  a  hair  or  a  wrinkle  to  enable  it  to  crawl.  It  can  do 
nothing  but  digest  its  food.  It  is  even  less  able  than  the 
mother  to  make  its  way  into  the  Mason-bee's  dwelling. 
And  yet  its  provisions  are  there:  they  must  be  reached: 
it  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  How  does  the  Fly  set 
about  it?  In  the  face  of  this  puzzle  I  resolved  to 
attempt  an  almost  impossible  task  and  watch  the 
Anthrax  from  the  moment  it  left  the  egg. 

Since  these  Flies  are  not  really  plentiful  in  my  own 
neighbourhood  I  made  an  expedition  to  Carpentras,  the 
dear  little  town  where  I  spent  my  twentieth  year.  The 
old  college  where  I  made  my  first  attempts  as  a  teacher 
was  unchanged  in  appearance.  It  still  looked  like  a 
penitentiary.  In  my  early  days  it  was  considered  un- 
wholesome for  boys  to  be  gay  and  active,  so  our  system 
of  education  applied  the  remedy  of  melancholy  and 
gloom.  Our  houses  of  instruction  were  above  all  houses 

[263] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

of  correction.  In  a  yard  between  four  walls,  a  sort  of 
bear-pit,  the  boys  fought  to  make  room  for  their  games 
under  a  spreading  plane-tree.  All  round  it  were  cells 
like  horseboxes,  without  light  or  air:  those  were  the 
class-rooms. 

I  saw,  too,  the  shop  where  I  used  to  buy  tobacco  as  I 
came  out  of  the  college;  and  also  my  former  dwelling, 
now  occupied  by  monks.  There,  in  the  embrasure  of  a 
window,  sheltered  from  profane  hands,  between  the 
closed  outer  shutters  and  the  panes,  I  kept  my  chemicals — 
bought  for  a  few  sous  saved  out  of  the  housekeeping 
money.  My  experiments,  harmless  or  dangerous,  were 
made  on  a  corner  of  the  fire,  beside  the  simmering  broth. 
How  I  should  love  to  see  that  room  again,  where  I  pored 
over  mathematical  problems ;  and  my  familiar  friend  the 
blackboard,  which  I  hired  for  five  francs  a  year,  and 
could  never  buy  outright  for  want  of  the  necessary  cash ! 

But  I  must  return  to  my  insects.  My  visit  to 
Carpentras,  unfortunately,  was  made  too  late  in  the 
year  to  be  very  profitable.  I  saw  only  a  few  Anthrax 
Flies  hovering  round  the  face  of  the  cliff.  Yet  I  did  not 
despair,  because  it  was  plain  that  these  few  were  not 
there  to  take  exercise,  but  to  settle  their  families. 

So  I  took  my  stand  at  the  foot  of  the  rock,  under  a 
broiling  sun,  and  for  half  a  day  I  followed  the  move- 
ments of  my  Flies.  They  flitted  quietly  in  front  of  the 
slope,  a  few  inches  away  from  the  earthly  covering. 

[264] 


THE  ANTHRAX  FLY 

They  went  from  one  Bee's  nest  to  another,  but  without 
attempting  to  enter.  For  that  matter,  the  attempt  would 
be  useless,  for  the  galleries  are  too  narrow  to  admit  their 
spreading  wings.  So  they  simply  explore  the  cliff,  going 
to  and  fro,  and  up  and  down,  with  a  flight  that  was  now 
sudden,  now  smooth  and  slow.  From  time  to  time  I 
saw  one  of  them  approach  the  wall  and  touch  the  earth 
suddenly  with  the  tip  of  her  body.  The  proceeding 
took  no  longer  than  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  When  it 
was  over  the  insect  rested  a  moment,  and  then  resumed 
flight. 

I  was  certain  that,  at  the  moment  when  the  Fly  tapped 
the  earth,  she  laid  her  eggs  on  the  spot.  Yet,  though  I 
rushed  forward  and  examined  the  place  with  my  lens,  I 
could  see  no  egg.  In  spite  of  the  closest  attention  I 
could  distinguish  nothing.  The  truth  is  that  my  state 
of  exhaustion,  together  with  the  blinding  light  and 
scorching  heat,  made  it  difficult  for  me  to  see  anything. 
Afterwards,  when  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  tiny 
thing  that  comes  out  of  that  egg,  my  failure  no  longer  sur- 
prised me :  for  even  in  the  leisure  and  peace  of  my  study 
I  have  the  greatest  difficulty  in  finding  the  infinitesimal 
creature.  How  then  could  I  see  the  egg,  worn  out  as  I 
was  under  the  sun-baked  cliff? 

None  the  less  I  was  convinced  that  I  had  seen  the 
Anthrax  Flies  strewing  their  eggs,  one  by  one,  on  the 
spots  frequented  by  the  Bees  who  suit  their  grubs.  They 

[265] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

take  no  precaution  to  place  the  egg  under  cover,  and  in- 
deed the  structure  of  the  mother  makes  any  such  pre- 
caution impossible.  The  egg,  that  delicate  object,  is 
laid  roughly  in  the  blazing  sun,  among  grains  of  sand, 
in  some  wrinkle  of  the  chalk.  It  is  the  business  of  the 
young  grub  to  manage  as  best  it  can. 

The  next  year  I  continued  my  investigations,  this  time 
on  the  Anthrax  of  the  Chalicodoma,  a  Bee  that  abounds 
in  my  own  neighbourhood.  Every  morning  I  took  the 
field  at  nine  o'clock,  when  the  sun  begins  to  be  unendur- 
able. I  was  prepared  to  come  back  with  my  head  aching 
from  the  glare,  if  only  I  could  bring  home  the  solution  of 
my  puzzle.  The  greater  the  heat,  the  better  my  chances 
of  success.  What  gives  me  torture  fills  the  insect  with 
delight;  what  prostrates  me  braces  the  Fly. 

The  road  shimmers  like  a  sheet  of  molten  steel.  From 
the  dusty,  melancholy  olive-trees  rises  a  mighty,  throb- 
bing hum,  the  concert  of  the  Cicadae,  who  sway  and 
rustle  with  increasing  frenzy  as  the  temperature  in- 
creases. The  Cicada  of  the  Ash  adds  its  strident  scrap- 
ings to  the  single  note  of  the  Common  Cicada.  This  is 
the  moment !  For  five  or  six  weeks,  of  tenest  in  the  morn- 
ing, sometimes  in  the  afternoon,  I  set  myself  to  explore 
the  rocky  waste. 

There  were  plenty  of  the  nests  I  wanted,  but  I  could 
not  see  a  single  Anthrax  on  their  surface.  Not  one 
settled  in  front  of  me  to  lay  her  egg.  At  most,  from  time 

[266] 


THE  ANTHRAX  FLY 

to  time,  I  could  see  one  passing  far  away,  with  an  im- 
petuous rush.  I  would  lose  her  in  the  distance ;  and  that 
was  all.  It  was  impossible  to  be  present  at  the  laying 
of  the  egg.  In  vain  I  enlisted  the  services  of  the  small 
boys  who  keep  the  sheep  in  our  meadows,  and  talked 
to  them  of  a  big  black  Fly  and  the  nests  on  which 
she  ought  to  settle.  By  the  end  of  August  my  last 
illusions  were  dispelled.  Not  one  of  us  had  succeeded 
in  seeing  the  big  black  Fly  perching  on  the  dome  of 
the  Mason-bee. 

The  reason  is,  I  believe,  that  she  never  perches  there. 
She  comes  and  goes  in  every  direction  across  the  stony 
plain.     Her  practised  eye  can  detect,  as  she  flies,  the 
earthen  dome  which  she  is  seeking,  and  having  found  it 
she  swoops  down,  leaves  her  egg  on  it,  and  makes  off 
without  setting  foot  on  the  ground.     Should  she  take  a 
rest  it  will  be  elsewhere,  on  the  soil,  on  a  stone,  on 
a  tuft  of  lavender  or  thyme.     It  is  no  wonder  that 
neither  I  nor  my  young  shepherds  could  find  her  egg. 
Meanwhile  I  searched  the  Mason-bees'  nests  for  grubs 
just  out  of  the  egg.     My  shepherds  procured  me  heaps 
of  the  nests,  enough  to  fill  baskets  and  baskets;  and 
these  I  inspected  at  leisure  on  my  work-table.    I  took 
the  cocoons  from  the  cells,  and  examined  them  within 
and  without:  my  lens  explored  their  innermost  recesses, 
the  sleeping  larva,  and  the  walls.     Nothing,  nothing, 
nothing !     For  a  fortnight  and  more  nests  were  searched 

[267] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

and  rejected,  and  heaped  up  in  a  corner.  My  study 
was  crammed  with  them.  In  vain  I  ripped  up  the 
cocoons;  I  found  nothing.  It  needed  the  sturdiest  faith 
to  make  me  persevere. 

At  last  I  saw,  or  seemed  to  see,  something  move  on 
the  Bee's  larva.  Was  it  an  illusion'?  Was  it  a  bit 
of  down  stirred  by  my  breath?  It  was  not  an  illusion; 
it  was  not  a  bit  of  down;  it  was  really  and  truly  a 
grub !  But  at  first  I  thought  the  discovery  unimportant, 
because  I  was  so  greatly  puzzled  by  the  little  creature's 
appearance. 

In  a  couple  of  days  I  was  the  owner  of  ten  such  worms 
and  had  placed  each  of  them  in  a  glass  tube,  together 
with  the  Bee-grub  on  which  it  wriggled.  It  was  so  tiny 
that  the  least  fold  of  skin  concealed  it  from  my  sight. 
After  watching  it  one  day  through  the  lens  I  sometimes 
failed  to  find  it  again  on  the  morrow.  I  would  think 
it  was  lost :  then  it  would  move,  and  become  visible  once 
more. 

For  some  time  the  belief  had  been  growing  in  me  that 
the  Anthrax  had  two  larval  forms,  a  first  and  a  second, 
the  second  being  the  form  I  knew,  the  grub  we  have  al- 
ready seen  at  its  meals.  Was  this  new  discovery,  I 
asked  myself,  the  first  form?  Time  showed  me  that 
it  was.  For  at  last  I  saw  my  little  worms  transform 
themselves  into  the  grub  I  have  already  described,  and 
make  their  first  start  at  draining  their  victims  with  kisses. 

[268] 


THE  ANTHRAX  FLY 

A  few  moments  of  satisfaction  like  those  I  then  enjoyed 
make  up  for  many  a  weary  hour. 

This  tiny  worm,  the  first  form  or  "primary  larva"  of 
the  Anthrax,  is  very  active.  It  tramps  over  the  fat 
sides  of  its  victim,  walking  all  round  it.  It  covers  the 
ground  pretty  quickly,  buckling  and  unbuckling  by 
turns,  very  much  after  the  manner  of  the  Looper-cater- 
pillar.  Its  two  ends  are  its  chief  points  of  support. 
When  walking  it  swells  out,  and  then  looks  like  a  bit 
of  knotted  string.  It  has  thirteen  rings  or  segments, 
including  its  tiny  head,  which  bristles  in  front  with 
short,  stiff  hairs.  There  are  four  other  pairs  of  bristles 
on  the  lower  surface,  and  with  the  help  of  these  it  walks. 

For  a  fortnight  the  feeble  grub  remains  in  this 
condition,  without  growing,  and  apparently  without  eat- 
ing. Indeed,  what  could  it  eat?  In  the  cocoon  there 
is  nothing  but  the  larva  of  the  Mason-bee,  and  the  worm 
cannot  eat  this  before  it  has  the  sucker  or  mouth  that 
comes  with  the  second  form.  Nevertheless,  as  I  said 
before,  though  it  does  not  eat  it  is  far  from  idle.  It  ex- 
plores its  future  dish,  and  runs  all  over  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

Now,  there  is  a  very  good  reason  for  this  long  fast. 
In  the  natural  state  of  the  Anthrax-grub  it  is  necessary. 
The  egg  is  laid  by  the  mother  on  the  surface  of  the  nest, 
at  a  distance  from  the  Bee's  larva,  which  is  protected 
by  a  thick  rampart.  It  is  the  business  of  the  new-born 

[269] 


FABRE'S  BOOK  OF  INSECTS 

grub  to  make  its  way  to  its  provisions,  not  by  violence, 
of  which  it  is  incapable,  but  by  patiently  slipping 
through  a  maze  of  cracks.  It  is  a  very  difficult  task, 
even  for  this  slender  worm,  for  the  Bee's  masonry  is 
exceedingly  compact.  There  are  no  chinks  due  to  bad 
building,  no  cracks  due  to  the  weather.  I  see  but  one 
weak  point,  and  that  only  in  a  few  nests :  it  is  the  line 
where  the  dome  joins  the  surface  of  the  stone.  This 
weakness  so  seldom  occurs  that  I  believe  the  Anthrax- 
grub  is  able  to  find  an  entrance  at  any  spot  on  the  dome 
of  the  Bee's  nest. 

The  grub  is  extremely  weak,  and  has  nothing  but 
invincible  patience.  How  long  it  takes  to  work  its  way 
through  the  masonry  I  cannot  say.  The  work  is  so 
laborious  and  the  worker  so  feeble!  In  some  cases  I 
believe  it  may  be  months  before  the  slow  journey  is  ac- 
complished. So  it  is  very  fortunate,  you  see,  that  this 
first  form  of  the  Anthrax,  which  exists  only  in  order  to 
pierce  the  walls  of  the  Bees'  nest,  should  be  able  to  live 
without  food. 

At  last  I  saw  my  young  worms  shrink,  and  rid  them- 
selves of  their  outer  skin.  They  then  appeared  as  the 
grub  I  knew  and  was  so  anxiously  expecting,  the  grub 
of  the  Anthrax,  the  cream-colored  cylinder  with  the  little 
button  of  a  head.  Fastening  its  round  sucker  to  the 
Bee-grub,  it  began  its  meal.  You  know  the  rest. 

Before  taking  leave  of  this  tiny  animal  let  us  dwell 

[270] 


THE  ANTHRAX  FLY 

for  a  moment  on  its  marvellous  instinct.  Picture  it  as 
having  just  left  the  egg,  just  awakened  to  life  under 
the  fierce  rays  of  the  sun.  The  bare  stone  is  its  cradle ; 
there  is  no  one  to  welcome  it  as  it  enters  the  world,  a 
mere  thread  of  half -solid  substance.  Instantly  it  starts 
on  its  struggle  with  the  flint.  Obstinately  it  sounds 
each  pore  of  the  stone;  it  slips  in,  crawls  on,  retreats, 
begins  again.  What  inspiration  urges  it  towards  its 
food,  what  compass  guides  it?  What  does  it  know  of 
those  depths,  or  of  what  lies  in  them?  Nothing.  What 
does  the  root  of  a  plant  know  of  the  earth's  fruitfulness? 
Again,  nothing.  Yet  both  the  root  and  the  worm  make 
for  the  nourishing  spot,  Why?  I  do  not  understand. 
I  do  not  even  try  to  understand.  The  question  is  far 
above  us. 

We  have  now  followed  the  complete  history  of  the 
Anthrax.  Its  life  is  divided  into  four  periods,  each  of 
which  has  its  special  form  and  its  special  work.  The 
primary  larva  enters  the  Bees'  nest,  which  contains  pro- 
visions; the  secondary  larva  eats  those  provisions;  the 
pupa  brings  the  insect  to  light  by  boring  through  the 
enclosing  wall ;  the  perfect  insect  strews  its  eggs.  Then 
the  story  starts  afresh. 


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